MY LADY'S DRESS 




VOLUME XI 
The Drama League Series of Plays 



VOLUMES IN 
THE DRAMA LEAGUE SERIES OF PLAYS 

i 




I. — Kindling By Charles Kenyon 

II. — A Thousand Years Ago . By Percy MacKaye 

III. — The Great Galeoto . . By Jose Echegaray 

IV. — The Sunken Bell . . By Gerhart Hauptmann 

V. — Mary Goes First . . By Henry Arthur Jones 

VI. — Her Husband's Wife . . . By A. E. Thomas 

VII. — Change By J.O. Francis 

VIII. — Marta of the Lowlands . . By Angel Guimerd 

IX. — Patrie! By Victorien Sardou 

X. — The Thief By Henry Bernstein 

XI. — My Lady's Dress . . . By Edward Knoblauch 

XII. — The Trail of the Torch . . By Paul Hervieu 

XIII. — A Woman's Way . . By Thompson Buchanan 

Other Volumes in Preparation 



MY LADY'S DRESS 



A PLAY IN THREE ACTS 



BY 

EDWARD KNOBLAUCH 




WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 

FRANK CHOUTEAU BROWN 



GARDEN CITY NEW YORK 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
1916 



T^S 



\\V\ 



\<° 



Copyright, 191k, 1916, by 
EDWARD KNOBLAUCH 



In its present form this play is dedicated to the reading 
public only, and no performances of it may be given. 
Any piracy or infringement will be prosecuted in accord- 
ance with the penalties provided by the United States 
Statutes : 

Sec. 4966. — Any person publicly performing or representing 
any dramatic or musical composition, for which copyright has 
been obtained, without the consent of the proprietor of the said 
dramatic or musical composition, or his heirs or assigns, shall be 
liable for damages therefor, such damages in all cases to be as- 
sessed at such sum, not less than one hundred dollars for the 
first and fifty dollars for every subsequent performance, as to 
the Court shall appear to be just. If the unlawful performance 
and representation be wilful and for profit, such person or per- 
sons shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction be 
imprisoned for a period not exceeding one year. — U. S. Revised 
Statutes, Title 60, Chap. 3. 




JAN 191916 
)CLA420399 



L%>~ 






?) 



To 
MAY and DENNIS EADIE 

Friends 



INTRODUCTION 

All plays may be easily divided into two classes: 
those that deal with recognizable human nature and 
those that have only to do with theatrical pup- 
pets and conventional dramatic motives. Despite 
a belief to the contrary, this classification is com- 
paratively novel to our modern theatre; as it is only 
within the last few years that we have had plays 
capable of being considered as candidates — of even 
the "also ran" class — for the first group; and, in 
number, they are still relatively few. 

Year after year, season after season, our play- 
wrights have written and rewritten on the same old 
models; based — for a considerable period of years — 
upon the "well-made" play. Even the Ibsen in- 
fluence, when it began to revolutionize the drama, 
added more to our technical appreciation of theatre 
conventions, and the conveniences of the stage, 
than any new and great feeling for the realities of 
human nature. While his plays dealt with big 
human crises and he employed characters composed 
[vii] 



INTRODUCTION 



of both good and bad traits, as people have in real 
life — they nevertheless remained puppets of the 
theatre — although they were larger, bigger puppets, 
better adapted to a theatre more modern and an 
audience more sophisticated than had existed there- 
tofore. And yet these plays introduced a new era 
in our theatre that meant the beginning of the end 
for the old French regime. 

As yet we find few real human characters on our 
stages — but, nevertheless, we do find them there, now 
one, now another; sometimes a small group of two 
or three; just about often enough to realize their 
existence has become an accomplished — if occasional 
— fact. Still more frequently we find a character 
curiously — and most illogically — compounded of 
both humanity and theatrical convention. "Oh, 
well," we think, "the better part was provided by 
the author; the other was perhaps arbitrarily grafted 
upon it by producer or manager in accepting or 
rehearsing the piece!" Some such process as this 
could account for the true and human moments of 
"Young America"; all too quickly spoiled by obvious 
strivings for "theatrical suspense" and "dramatic 
interest" as those damning terms are now understood 
on the stage and in the classroom of to-day. 
[ viii 1 



INTRODUCTION 



Formerly the characters upon our stages were all 
mere theatrical conventions. They had no more 
flesh-and-blood existence than Henry Esmond. Ex- 
actly like him, they existed only as they were seen 
(through the playwright's mind's eye) by the other 
characters in his story, or as they were needed to 
develop those "situations" that had been previously 
planned — and so they necessarily lacked all human 
interest of appeal. "Way Down East" — for in- 
stance — may deal with "real" incidents of farm life; 
but its characters are the veriest set of unstuffed 
theatrical puppets that ever moved about upon a 
theatre's boards. No real life blood is in them — 
nor ever can be. But recently the new spirit that 
has begun to be felt in our playhouses is indicating, 
more and more definitely, that the modern dramatist 
is better concerned with development of character 
than with the mere architectural construction and 
theatric framework of his story. Real human 
beings are at last being demanded upon our stages. 
We are even becoming willing to pay our money to 
see them in real situations, confronting problems 
allied to real life, more readily than to support a 
group of theatrical abstractions stalking through a 
conventional, sandpapered, theatrical plot, 
fix! 



INTRODUCTION 



This must eventually result in another revolution 
of no slight extent. It means a new technic for 
our playwrights to master, perhaps more difficult 
than any they have had to learn heretofore. In the 
past they had only to understand the resources of the 
theatre and become acquainted with its well-used 
and hackneyed methods of projecting its artificial 
personages and plots "across" the footlights. Some 
part of that work will remain to be done; but after 
that has been accomplished, the young dramatist 
must study to make his characters appear human 
and real, even within their necessarily artificial and 
theatrically conventional surroundings. They must 
be adapted only enough to be appropriately related 
to their background — itself composed of theatrical 
conventions, no matter how "realistic" it may be — 
while still retaining enough of truth of character 
to appear real and human to their auditors. This 
can — and must — be accomplished, without requiring 
them to be compounded of all the dramatic conven- 
tions as well ! And so it is we find ourselves, at this 
end of the year 1915, actually participating in the very 
process of introducing a "new" element into the 
theatre. 

While not entirely a new problem in the theatre, 
[xl 



INTRODUCTION 



we are only beginning to realize for ourselves that in 
that way lies our next direction of progress, and to 
suspect that that way also lies a new public with 
latent interest waiting to be wakened for this type 
of coming drama. This drama may lie only just 
over the edge of the horizon; but it must be tested — 
and its new audiences developed — by practical ex- 
periment, conducted not only in our "little" theatres, 
or before unnatural "invited," "subscription," or 
"society" audiences, but proved in the real or "com- 
mercial" theatre itself, always the democratic play- 
house of the masses. 

A most encouraging evidence of dramatic vitality 
exists, therefore, in the fact that, despite the inherent 
conservatism of our controlling theatre managers, 
there are occasionally produced upon their many 
stages a few important experiments with new dra- 
matic forms; at least one or two occurring in every 
dramatic season. And while, as a rule, we expect 
hardly more than one of these experiments from any 
one dramatist, we are indebted to Mr. Knoblauch 
for at least two (and, possibly, more) of these novel- 
ties in no more than as many years — a record un- 
usual enough, particularly in the theatre, where 
since time immemorial more attention has been 
[xi] 



INTRODUCTION 



directed toward imitating the play that has made 
the latest popular hit than in striking out and dis- 
covering new fields of success. 

Mr. Knoblauch is by birth an American — though 
often regarded as English from his long residence 
abroad. He was, nevertheless, born in New York 
City, the date being April 7, 1874, and after gradu- 
ating from college, he went immediately abroad, 
where he has since resided, either on the Continent 
or in England. His first play to be given in America 
was "The Shulamite," presented by Miss Lena 
Ash well during one of her tours. Next came "The 
Cottage in the Air," one of the few plays by an 
American produced during our short-lived "New 
Theatre" venture. A light and charming little 
romance, it demanded, however — more than any 
other of the plays produced in the gorgeous distances 
of that great auditorium — a simpler and more inti- 
mate environment, where the piece's delicate texture 
might have been enough appreciated to have assured 
it an artistic success. 

"The Faun" was, therefore, the first play to bring 
Mr. Knoblauch into prominence. It was pro- 
duced by Mr. Faversham in 1911, played by him 
all through one season, and — if memory serves — at 
fxiil 



INTRODUCTION 



least a portion of another. This play won a well- 
deserved success, partly from its novel idea, par- 
taking even somewhat of the nature of social satire, 
and trenching the borders of the modern comedy of 
manners, a most difficult vein and one that has 
rarely been successfully worked; about the best 
recent example being Mr. Henry Arthur Jones's 
"Mary Goes First." 

The following year Mr. Knoblauch made a daring 
experiment at dramatizing in "Kismet" the atmos- 
pheric essence and romantic illusion of "The Arabian 
Nights," an experiment that proved far more suc- 
cessful than the cognoscenti deemed possible when 
first they heard it was to be tried. Then came 
"Milestones," in collaboration with Arnold Ben- 
nett; then two plays little known in this country: 
"Discovering America" and "The Head Master"; 
next "My Lady's Dress," and finally — near the end 
of the season 1914-1915 — "Marie Odile," an attempt 
at romanticizing a war incident that, localized 
in so modern and realistic a milieu, was difficult to 
make convincing, either as miracle or romance. 

It is either a curious coincidence, or the definite 
expression of an alert, wide-awake, and venturesome 
personal outlook, that makes the same author re- 
[ xiii ] 



INTRODUCTION 



sponsible for two such differently novel types of 
theatrical entertainment as "My Lady's Dress" 
and "Milestones" — setting both "The Faun" and 
"Kismet" aside as expressing the same tendencies 
somewhat less importantly. In "Milestones" the 
authors dared to repeat substantially the same 
sequence of events in three successive acts, each act 
portraying the conflict between conservatism and 
youth, as it duplicated itself in three succeeding 
generations in the same family, a new set of char- 
acters appearing in each scene, linked together by 
family relationship and by the youngsters of the 
first generation becoming gradually the older and 
conservative characters of the third — an idea inter- 
esting in thesis and obviously provocative of new 
difficulties in its dramatic working out. 

Judging from the theme, and even more from the 
development, of this and others of his plays, Mr. 
Knoblauch seems to possess two clearly marked 
flares: one toward romanticism, the other toward 
the study — or, at least, the observation — of social 
conditions. "My Lady's Dress" certainly possesses 
novel value in the theatre as a social document. 
Whether or not that interest was intended by the 
author in the first instance, it is clearly evident 
[xiv] 



INTRODUCTION 



in the finished product. More than that, Mr. 
Knoblauch would seem to have also struck upon a 
theme of unusual feminine appeal, and it is supposed 
that the dramatist's failure or success in the theatre 
depends upon his appeal to the feminine portion of his 
audience, which we are told comprises between 60 and 
15 per cent, of the American theatre-going public! 

"My Lady's Dress," first produced in England, at 
the Royal Theatre in London, April 21, 1914, and, 
in New York, at the Playhouse, on October 10th of 
the same year, possesses many points of peculiar 
interest to any student of contemporary drama. 
One of these was its author's recognition and adop- 
tion of a modern continental mannerism for unifying 
his stage pictures. While this interest was merely 
incidental, it is nevertheless to be regretted that — 
in the American production, at least — no attempt was 
made to realize these suggestive stage directions. 
In another instance, where concerned with the con- 
struction and arrangement of the material utilized 
for the piece, it is essentially fundamental. Mr. 
Knoblauch has here provided us with an unusual 
and interesting experiment in modern dramatic 
technique, for "My Lady's Dress" also belongs to 
the somewhat small group of plays comprising "a 

[XV] 



INTRODUCTION 



play within a play," or, rather, in this particular 
case, several plays within a play ! 

Mr. Knoblauch has actually undertaken to adapt 
to the conventions of our stage a drama requiring 
expression in nine separate and distinct scenes (it 
is unimportant that he has arbitrarily chosen to 
subdivide these scenes into the usual act groups 
indicated by the program), nearly all requiring dif- 
ferent sets of characters, located in different places, 
and occurring at different periods. The piece is 
essentially a drama in nine scenes, nearly every 
one so completely self-contained as to be available 
for separate presentation as a one-act piece. 

Taking these varied scenes, the author has woven 
them together by two altogether different means: 
in the first place, he has used a short prelude to 
introduce the general subject of his play — an elabo- 
rate gown that it is hinted may have a particular 
effect upon the relations of a husband and wife, 
and even perhaps exert a deciding influence upon 
their future fortunes as well. Mr. Knoblauch has 
handled this theme so as not only to introduce an 
element of real and sustained suspense, but he has 
even succeeded in attaching a certain symbolic 
value to the dress that helps greatly in making his 
F xvi 1 



INTRODUCTION 



subject appear of more than mere trivial im- 
portance. 

Beginning at this point and employing the some- 
what hackneyed theatric retrospective mechanism 
of the "dream" play, he develops the main portion 
of his drama, concerned with the materials and mak- 
ing of this dress. So the second scene becomes an 
incident connected with the silk culture from which 
the dress was made; the third scene is concerned 
with its weaving; the fourth relates to the manu- 
facture of its lace trimming; the fifth to the making 
of its artificial flowers, and the sixth portrays an 
incident of the fur trade. In sequence these scenes 
bear no relation to chronology of time. Some, as 
in the third scene, take place in the present, while 
others, as in the lace scene, dated at 1650, are more 
remote. They further maintain no consistency in 
regard to place: they jump from Italy to France, 
to Holland, London, and to Siberia. 

In the third act the scenes are knit more closely 
together, the author evidently feeling the necessity 
both for "speeding up" the interest and strengthen- 
ing the dramatic climax toward which his previous 
scenes have, by now, obviously begun to converge. 
The first scene of the last act (the seventh in the 
[ xvii ] 



INTRODUCTION 



play) is the most complex, introducing the dreaming 
wife herself in some of the actual happenings as 
well as some imaginary incidents concerned with 
making the dress referred to by her in the opening 
scene; finally showing its exhibition and her purchase 
of it in the dressmaker's shop on Bond Street just 
previous to the opening of the play. Thus, for the 
first time, the actual characters reappear, now shown 
side by side with the imaginary, while the eighth 
incident is so closely connected with the preceding 
scene as to show the happenings taking place on the 
other side of the very curtain in front of which the 
dressmaker's mannikins had posed and postured 
during the scene before. A portion of this scene, 
along with a part of the ninth, is supposed — in mov- 
ing-picture parlance — to "throw back "in order to 
depict different incidents of actually simultaneous 
occurrence. 

The last scene of all draws these scattered strands 
together, completing both dress and play. Revert- 
ing to the opening scene, it picks up and completes 
the "outer story," showing the delivery of the dress 
for which the principal characters had been waiting, 
with Anne's awakening to the realization that she 
had dreamed the history of her gown and its making 
[ xviii ] 



INTRODUCTION 



— so bringing her to comprehend the minor and major 
tragedies woven into its beautiful fabrics. 

Besides his choice of subject and the later re- 
lation of these scenes to the making of this fashion- 
able gown, the author has of intention so arranged 
his story as to use the two principal actors in all 
these various scenes, husband and wife reappearing 
in each little episode, generally under an easily 
recognized variant of their Christian names, modi- 
fied only enough to conform with their different 
nationalities (or an appropriate diminutive) : so Anne 
becomes Annette, Antje, Annie, Anna, or Anita in 
the one case, while John appears as Gioann, Joanny, 
Jonkheer, Jack, Ivan, Jacquelin, in the other. 

This detail of handling, at least, is typically theat- 
rical. The reader should also realize and allow for 
this factor, that — from its direct visual appeal to 
the eye of the spectator — would be a far more 
important element in seeing the drama in the 
theatre than in reading it in the printed page. 
It also appeals greatly to the actors, always 
allured by any opportunity to prove what they regard 
as their "versatility. " Indeed, this "protean" idea 
has been the real reason for being of several well- 
known and popular plays, notably "Dr. Jekyll and 
[xix] 



INTRODUCTION 



Mr. Hyde" and "The Corsican Brothers." With 
this treatment in mind, the author has managed 
most cleverly to aid his actors by providing them 
such radically different settings, and opportunities 
to wear such different types of costumes — as well as 
portray such boldly characterized and different sorts 
of persons — as greatly to assist them in proving their 
versatility to the audience, in turn generally easily 
impressed with such theatrically apparent and obvious 
tours-du-force as the author has here chosen to employ. 
To revert to Mr. Knoblauch's suggested treatment 
of the settings: most popular among the conven- 
tions or "mannerisms" of the so-called modern 
stagecraft of Germany has been a modernized version 
of the "forestage," so devised as to remain a per- 
manent part of all the various scenes shown in a 
series of stage pictures. By this means it was neces- 
sary to change only a comparatively small section of 
the stage — the upper and centre portion — to adapt 
each setting to the new requirements for "action'' 
or "business" of a series of quickly recurring scenes 
(in one case only did Mr. Knoblauch require an 
exterior) and, in the last act, this permanently 
standing archway or "inner proscenium" made an 
arrangement peculiarly suited to the stage manage- 

[XX] 



INTRODUCTION 



merit the author had carefully planned. This stage 
arrangement was originally devised to serve two 
purposes: one to help more deeply "frame" the inner 
picture; the other to simplify quick changes of stage 
settings — as from the full-stage set in the first scene 
to those dream scenes that followed it — as well as 
to provide opportunity for a particular kind of new 
and effective overhead lighting. It was undoubt- 
edly a recognition of its value for these two latter 
considerations, as well as to help group his scenes 
into the act divisions he had adopted, that caused 
Mr. Knoblauch in his stage directions to call for the 
front portion, or "forestage" section, of his scene 
to remain the same throughout the play. It is 
equally characteristic of our obtuse and old-fashioned 
managerial system that the opportunity suggested 
by the author was disregarded here in America; 
and the producer allowed to handle these scenes in 
the old conventional way ! 

To that rapidly growing group interested in the 
modern pageant Mr. Knoblauch's treatment of this 
play also offers many curious and most instructive 
parallels. Likewise composed of a series of scenes 
devolving from or bound together by some central 
idea, the scheme of development of the pageant 
f xxi 1 



INTRODUCTION 



equally depends upon a succession of incidents 
generally unrelated and — when historical in scheme 
— arranged in chronological sequence. The modern 
pageant is further adapted to presentation out of 
doors; and therefore the author has so to develop 
his story as to obtain his effects more naturally than 
when devising his drama for performance on a 
theatre stage. Thus Mr. Knoblauch, in writing 
for the regular theatre, can make use of the sort of 
dramatic tableau climax requiring a "quick curtain" 
to be effective, a treatment impossible in the open 
pageant field. He also benefits by availing himself 
of all the customary machinery arranged by cen- 
turies of custom to interpose between the dramatist 
and his audience, and to help enclose his stage and 
actors; all designed to assist in making his story 
theatrically effective. This paraphernalia being en- 
tirely lacking on the pageant field, the pageant 
writer has to provide — by means of an entirely new 
set of technical conditions — a more or less effective, 
and radically different, kind of substitute. 

The pageant writer, however, will find much to 
interest and instruct him in Mr. Knoblauch's 
theatrical arrangement of his scenes; and even per- 
haps Mr. Knoblauch may end by unconsciously 
[ xxii ] 



INTRODUCTION 



influencing the pageant form by the way he has 
developed his story. Each of his scenes is a clear, 
closely knit telling of an episode of his story; which 
episode, while complete in itself, nevertheless 
gathers interest and increases in effectiveness of 
appeal because of its relation to the other episodes 
that precede and follow it. Each scene is carefully 
jointed into the whole. Each is kept carefully 
under control by the dramatist. Especially is this 
true during the first two acts. So each scene deals 
with a carefully varied element or character; the 
second scene with vanity and revenge; the third 
with self-sacrifice; the fourth a cleverly modified 
trick of comedy; the fifth self-sacrifice again; the 
sixth a somewhat elemental version of the eternal 
triangle. And so the interest is carefully sustained 
and strengthened until the third act, when, with a 
novel and very much up-to-the-moment setting, 
containing all the appeal appropriately possible 
from a display of intimate personal feminine garni- 
ture (without which, nowadays, no dramatic piece 
aimed to interest the feminine portion of the audi- 
ence can be successfully attempted), with a rather 
bewildering emphasis suddenly placed upon a num- 
ber of characters (quite after the pageant fashion, 
[ xxiii ] 



INTRODUCTION 



by the way!), the dramatist brings the piece swiftly 
to its biggest theatrical moment — the murder c le 
dressmaker by his mannikin, a murder that one Is, 
as a matter of fact, has hardly been given a suffi- 
ciently well-developed motive, and therefore ir 
duces what is perhaps a weakness in the logic of t! • 
piece, unfortunately occurring at that partic 
moment when the greatest care was necessary to \ 
vide the critical feminine spectator with a thoroug 
convincing and readily acceptable motive for t 
impulsive act. 

In its present theatric form "My Lady's Dress" 
is of course no more a true pageant than "Joseph 
and His Brethren," or any other episodic commercial 
treatment in the theatre of material covering large 
scope, or of great historical extent. It is, indeed, 
as a matter of fact, quite as successfully adapted to 
the theatre as any play developing consistently 
around a more conventional plot. In its develop- 
ment Mr. Knoblauch has proved himself far more 
of a trained craftsman in the theatre than in some of 
his other plays, for he has not missed a single point 
in making his series of little dramas adapted to 
effective performance, in the theatre — nor has he 
once failed to avail himself of all the technical ad- 
f xxiv 1 



INTRODUCTION 



vantages possible in placing these little dramas upon 
a pi ofessional stage. Indeed, Mr. Knoblauch's 
one ilure — if "failure" it is properly to be called 
— comes from his placing so much dependence at 
ical point upon this theatrical instinct, through 
ich he has perhaps failed sufficiently to prepare 
vay for his final dramatic — some may choose to 
it his "melodramatic" — moment; and therefore 
i in his audiences have felt this moment to have 
1 arbitrarily introduced without sufficient, reason 
i l a the development of the story, or motivation 
otherwise provided from the characters to excuse or 
naturally produce it. The last scene, too, lacks 
perhaps a little in its psychological feminine appeal, 
and for similar reasons. Probably too many women 
in the audience are likely to acknowledge — to them- 
selves, at least! — their personal inability to have 
made the sacrifice the drama here demands. Their 
feminine intuition is at loggerheads with Mr. Knob- 
lauch's quite proper theatric deduction : they realize 
too clearly that they themselves could not have given 
up so easily the dramatic opportunity of appearing 
in so particularly fetching a costume — and a situa- 
tion — as the dramatist has so carefully built up 
during the evening before their very eyes. Can it 
[ xxv ] 



INTRODUCTION 



be that the author has, at the very end, failed to 
realize — or realizing, to solve — the problem of con- 
flicting interests that he has himself evolved? That 
perhaps his knowledge of the theatre and his feeling 
for dramatic possibilities have blinded him for the 
moment to those intuitive deductions of human 
feminine psychology in which so many of his audi- 
tors would be better skilled than he; and so — by 
taking the wrong turning — he may have lost what 
would otherwise seem to be a play superbly adapted 
to gaining — and maintaining — the feminine interest 
to the full! Perhaps the logical feminine dramatic 
climax would have been the final scene — that Mr. 
Knoblauch did not write — of Anne appearing in this 
wonderfully expounded gown and making conquest of 
both husband and admirer, both John and Sir Charles ! 
There could then have been no doubt as to the final 
future of the married pair left in the mind of any 
gentle spectator. Would this have been the ideally 
feminine "happy ending?" Being, after all, but 
mere men, we can only propound the sphinxlike 
question. It still remains, concealed between these 
covers as definitely as behind the stage curtain, 
for all feminine readers to find and answer ! 

Frank Chouteau Brown. 
Boston, December 1915. 

[ xxvi ] 



CAST OF THE PLAY 

Produced under the direction of Messrs. Vedrenne and 
Eadie, at the Royalty Theatre, London, April 21, 1914. 

ACT I— THE MATERIAL 

Scene 1 Anne's Boudoir 

John Mr. Dennis Eadie 

Anne Miss Gladys Cooper 

Leonie Miss Janet Ross 

Scene 2 A Peasant's House, Italy 

Peo Mr. Edmund Goulding 

Nina Miss Gladys Cooper 

La Grisa Miss Beryl Mercer 

Gioann Mr. Dennis Eadie 

Scene 3 A Workroom, Lyons, France 

Nicolas Mr. Campbell Gullan 

Annette Miss Gladys Cooper 

Pere Simon Mr. Arthur Baxendell 

Joanny Mr. Dennis Eadie 

Rondier Mr. Dorian Fisher 

ACT n— THE TRIMMING 

Scene 1 A Garden, Holland, 1650 

Antje Miss Gladys Cooper 

Moeder Kaatje Miss Edith Evans 

Mynheer Cornelis .... Mr. Edmund Maurice 
Jonkheer Ian Van der Bom . . Mr. Dennis Eadie 

Scene 2 A Room, Whitechapel, London 

Annie Miss Gladys Cooper 

Mrs. Moss Miss Beryl Mercer 

Liza Miss Lynn Fontanne 

Jack Mr. Dennis Eadie 



Scene 3 A Trapper's Stockade, Siberia 

Louka Mr. Edmund Goulding 

Yermak Mr. Dorian Fisher 

Anna Miss Gladys Cooper 

Ivan Mr. Dennis Eadie 

ACT m— THE MAKING 



Scene 1 " Jacquelin s," New Bond Street 

Miss Gladys Cooper 

Mr. Edmund Maurice 

Miss Lynn Fontanne 

Miss Elizabeth Kirby 

Mr. David Darrell 



Anne .... 
Sir Charles . 
Mrs. Collisson 
Lady Appleby 
Hon. Peter Withers 



Miss Sylvia \ , ( Miss Edith Evans 

Miss Madeleine j Saleswomen \ Miss Adela Weekes 

A Fitter Miss Wilma Leyman 

Messaline ~) f Miss Gladys Barnett 

Trottinette M J Miss Marjorie Hume 

Psyche ( Man ™° u ™ { Miss Winifred Ellice 
Rosamund J (^ Miss Barbara Neville 

Jacquelin Mr. Dennis Eadie 

Buttons Mr. Edward Ayres 

Anita Miss Gladys Cooper 

Scene 2 The other side of the Curtain 

Jacquelin Mr. Dennis Eadie 

Anita Miss Gladys Cooper 

Messaline Miss Gladys Barnett 

Trottinette Miss Marjorie Hume 

Psyche Miss Winifred Ellice 

Rosamund Miss Barbara Neville 

Miss Sylvia Miss Edith Evans 

Scene 3 Anne's Boudoir 

Anne Miss Gladys Cooper 

Leonie Miss Janet Ross 

John Mr. Dennis Eadie 

The Play produced by Frank Vernon 



mt 3i 



ACT I 

Scene I: A boudoir [right and left from the point 
of view of the actor]. The room is furnished very 
daintily in the bright colors of modern taste. It is 
cut in half from right to left by an arch. Below the 
arch, right and left, doors, the right one being the 
entrance door to the room, the left one leading to the 
bathroom. Beyond the arch right there is a fireplace. 
To the left a dressing-table with a looking-glass lighted 
by candles on either side. A couch stands obliquely 
before the fire. One or two chairs and a little table 
with a shaded lamp; also a telephone. The fire is 
burning brightly. It is about 6.30 of an afternoon. 
Before the dressing-table, adjusting a loose gown, 
sits Anne, a charming woman of twenty-five. Near- 
by stands the French maid, Leonie. She has a 
dress over her arm and a pair of shoes in her hand, 
as if to put them away. 

Leonie. Madame desire-t-elle autre chose? 
Anne. No, Leonie, I think not. [She surveys 

r 3 1 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

herself critically in the glass.] I look a fright. A 
perfect fright ! And to-night of all nights ! 

Leonie. Madame mistake 'erself ! Madame est 
belle comme un ange! Comme toujours. 

Anne. An angel with a racking headache, if you 
like, Leonie! I've done far too much to-day — 
as usual. Oh, London! London! What's the 
time? 

Leonie [looking at a clock on the little table]. Just 
half -past six 

Anne. I've got an hour — thank heaven ! Get me 
one of my headache powders, will you? I'll lie 
down. 

Leonie. Bien, Madame. [She moves to the door 
left.] What dress will madame put on to-night? 

Anne. The new dress. The one they've just 
sent home. 

Leonie. There is no dress, Madame, just sent 
home. 

Anne. No dress? You're positive? 

Leonie. Mais positive, mais positive, Madame. 

Anne. Oh, these dressmakers! Devils all! 

Devils! [She goes over to the telephone.] Is that you, 

Baker? Get me Jacquelin's, will you? At once, 

Baker. Mr. Jacquelin himself. [She hangs up the 

[4] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act 1 

receiver.] If I don't have that dress to-night, I'll — 
oh, my head! Fetch that powder, LEonie — please. 
Leonie. Bien, Madame. 

[She goes off by the door left. 
Anne. I simply must have that dress. Or 
I'll [The telephone rings. Taking off the re- 
ceiver.] Is that Jacquelin's? Mr. Jacquelin him- 
self? He's not well? Nonsense. He was quite 
well half an hour ago when I was at the shop. 
Oh, gone out? Who's that? Miss Sylvia, is it? 
Yes. Yes. It's I that's speaking. Where is 
that dress of mine? It was quite ready. Mr. 
Jacquelin promised to send it at once. On the way, 
you say? You've actually sent it? 

[The door right opens and John enters, silently. 
He is a distinguished-looking man of forty; 
wears an ordinary lounge suit. He comes 
up behind Anne, leans over her shoulder, and 
gives her a kiss.] 

Anne. Oh, John, don't, don't be so naughty 

[Into the telephone.] No! Nothing. Somebody 
must have cut in. [In a whisper to him.] Look 
what you've made me do! [Into the telephone.] 
Well, if it isn't here in half an hour! Half an hour, 
remember! I'll never, never come to Jacquelin's 
[5] 



Act 1 MY LADY'S DRESS 

again, Miss Sylvia! Never. [She hangs up the 
telephone. To John.] The brutes! I absolutely de- 
pend on them for to-night! 

John. Wear anything, my darling. You always 
look far lovelier than all the others put together. 

Anne [laying her hand over his mouth] . Now don't, 
John. Be serious! You know how much to-night 
means to both of us! And if I don't look better 
than my best and make idiotic eyes at old Sir 
Charles 

John [annoyed]. Anne! 

Anne [with a little laugh]. Ha! Was it jealous? 

John [savagely]. You know I hate it. 

Anne [coaxing]. Don't be an old silly. Come! 
I'll lie down here, because I'm more or less dead, 
and you shall sit there and tell me just how furious 
you are with your dear little corpse of a wife. [She 
throws herself on the couch. John sits down on the 
couch rather sidkily.] 

Anne. Well? 

[John looks at her a moment, then smiles and 
kisses her tenderly.] 
There! That's a bit better. 

John. I can't help it, Anne. I can't bear to 
see you play with old Sir Charles the way you 
16] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

did the other night: smiling and making love to 
him. 

Anne. Love! Pooh! That isn't love! 

John. I don't care what it is. I know I'm ter- 
ribly old-fashioned and bourgeois and middle class. 
Not at all like most men nowadays. But then most 
men haven't — [with a smile] — a wife like mine, you see. 

Anne. You dear, old darling! I adore getting 
you into a rage just so as to hear you say the same 
sweet old things all over again. I do really. Only — 
[she taps the tip of his nose with her finger] — you — 
must — be — sensible — sometimes. 

John. Sensible! I am sensible! 

Anne. Are you? Why do you suppose I make 
love, as you call it, to pompous old Sir Charles? 
D'you think it amuses me, except in so far as it 
amuses any woman to make an utter ass of a man? 
You know we've got to get him to help us! You'll 
never get that post without his influence. 

John. Oh, post! 

Anne. It doesn't matter how much you deserve 
it. If Sir Charles won't put in the right word at the 

right moment 

[Leonie reenters with a glass of water with a 
powder in it,] 

[7] 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

Leonie. Madame, le cachet. 

Anne [to Leonie]. Give it to me. And go down- 
stairs and let me know the instant the dress arrives. 
They say it's on the way. Of course, I don't believe 
a word of it. 

Leonie. Bien, Madame. 

[She goes off by the door right. 

John [seeing the glass]. What's that? 

Anne. Only a powder. I have rather a head. 

John. Have you, dear? Perhaps you'd better 
not go to-night. 

Anne. I'll be all right when I've slept. These 
new powders are wonderful. They pop me into a 
trance, I have the most glorious dreams, and in half 
an hour I'm awake and ready to go on all night. 

John. I don't like you taking this strong stuff. 
Do let me telephone Sir Charles and say we can't 
come to dinner. 

Anne. My darling John, you must be slightly 
deranged. 

John. Why? 

Anne. Not go to-night — when I know the Collis- 
sons are to be there, too? They're after the same 
post, let me tell you. I know they are. There never 
was a meaner, more calculating cat than that wife 

r s i 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

of his, with her sly pose of being a chronic invalid. 
And if I don't cut in ahead of her 

John. It makes me sick, this whole business. 
Years of sweating simply count for nothing — ab- 
solutely nothing — compared to this after-dinner 
game. 

Anne [flippantly]. Oh, during dinner, too, my 
dear. And before! And in between times, too, for 
that matter. To tell you the truth, John — I've just 
been having tea with Sir Charles. 

John. You haven't! 

Anne. Yes. At the Club. And then I took him 
round to Jacquelin's and showed him the dress I was 
going to wear to-night. "In his honor" I told him, 
of course. You should have seen him puff up, just 
like an old turkey cock! Ha! Ha! 

John. It's disgusting! 

Anne. All for you, John ! All for you ! 

John [fiercely]. Sometimes I could hate you, 
Anne! To think of all the low-down duplicity in a 
wife's heart when she really loves her husband. 

Anne [earnestly]. And sometimes I could hate 
you, John. To think of the idiotic jealousy in a hus- 
band's heart when he really loves his wife. 

John. Anne, don't let's go to-night. 
[9] 



Act 1 MY LADY'S DRESS 

Anne. My darling! How long have we been 
married? 

John. I don't know. Always. 

Anne. Six years, nearly. And I've presented 
you with two strapping children — and it's all been 
an absurd success, hasn't it? And yet, every now 
and then, you're just like some primitive cave man 
slashing about his flint knife in defence of his female. 
And you know nowadays we're supposed — supposed 
to be overcivilized. 

John [fiercely]. Well, I'm not, for one, thank God. 

Anne. No. You certainly are not. [Putting 
her hands on his shoulders and looking into his eyes.] 
And I wonder if I'd love you half so well if you 
weren't a bit of a cave man — occasionally. 

John. And I wonder, if you weren't a bit of — 
of 

Anne. Call it Sphinx, John. It's a far prettier 
name than fraud, isn't it? 

John [embracing her tenderly]. Oh, my dear! If 
I didn't love you so, perhaps I shouldn't mind it all 
— this miserable low-down scrambling after a position 
which 

Anne. Which you deserve more than any one in 
England. 

[101 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

John. Even if I do deserve it — is it worth grub- 
bing for in the mud? 

Anne. You always exaggerate so. 

John. iVnne! Listen to me. Let me call up 
Sir Charles and say you're worn out. No, listen! 
And then I'll put on my smoking suit, and you stop 
in this lovely fluffy gown of yours ! And we'll have 
Baker bring up the dinner here on a little table, be- 
fore the fire, and we'll 

Leonie reenters by the door right with a box. 

Leonie. Voila la robe, Madame. 
Anne. Ah ! 
John. Oh, damn! 

Anne. Just take it out of the box, Leonie. 
Leonie. Bien, Madame. 

Anne. Wait till I show it you. And then see if 
you don't want me to wear it to-night and wipe out 
that Collisson creature once and for all. 

[Leonie produces a gorgeous shimmering gown. 

It is trimmed with a touch of sable and a 

beautiful golden tinsel rose. Somewhere round 

the shoulders ivinds a piece of old Mechlin.] 

Hold it up, Leonie. There! Now, my dear! Now 

what do you say? 

[ii] 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

John [querulously]. Is that supposed to be a 
dress? 

Anne. I wonder why men always affect such utter 
ignorance in women's clothes? Do they think it 
adds to their manliness? [To Leonie.] Bring it 
over here! Look! Do you see that material? 
There's not another piece like it in all London. Mr. 
Jacquelin told me so himself. It's hand woven. 
He got it direct from Lyons. Absolutely unique. 

John [feeling it, grumpily]. Very unique. 

Anne. And that fur is real Russian sable, my 
dear. 

John. Yes. Shot in some rabbit pen, most likely. 

Anne. And the rose. Paris. 

John. East end, you mean. 

Anne. East end, indeed! And look at the lace. 
A genuine bit of Venetian — over three hundred years 
old, if not more. And uncut. I can always use it 
again. 

John. I wonder why women always say that? 
And then have boxes and boxes full of rubbish they 
never do use again. 

Anne [with a superior look at him]. Take the 
dress, Leonie. Monsieur doesn't appreciate beauti- 
ful things to-day. 

[12] 






MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

Leonie. Monsieur will apprecier her toute a 
1 'heure, quand madame la mettra. [Leonie spreads 
the gown over a chair by the dressing-table.] 

John. All I appreciate to-day is that it's a ridicu- 
lous mess of odds and ends which has probably cost a 
perfectly heathenish sum of money. 

Anne. Not at all, my dear! Absurdly cheap — 
for what it is. 

John. What do you consider cheap? 

Anne [lightly]. Fifty -five guineas. That's all. 

John [rising]. Fifty-five guineas? Fifty-five, you 
say? 

Anne. John! Do remember my poor head ! 

John. Your poor head! Your poor head! And 
what about my poor pocket? 

Anne [with a reproachful look, indicating Leonie]. 
Leonie! Take these things and get my bath ready 
for seven. 

Leonie. Bien, Madame. 

Anne. That's all for the present. 

[Leonie goes off by the door left with the box the 
dress came in.] 
John! Before Leonie, too! In all our married 
life you've never done such a thing. 

John. I can't help it. It's perfectly outrageous ! 
[13 1 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 



Only last week I asked you to be a little careful. 
You seem to forget. We've got two children. 
They're growing up. They've got to be educated. 

Anne. That's precisely why I want you to have 
that post. 

John. Yes — but fifty-five guineas! 

Anne. I tell you it's cheap as dresses go nowa- 
days. You as a man interested in socialism, you 
ought to realize that. 

John. What, in Heaven's name, has socialism to 
do with the price of a dress? 

Anne. Everything! Just think for a moment of 
all the work that goes to make up a dress! All the 
poor people. 

John. Oh, you call that socialism? 

Anne. Of course I do. Poor people that work 
and are underpaid — that's socialism, isn't it? I was 
reading about it only the other day in some paper. 
All about the cocoons. 

John. The cocoons? 

Anne. Yes, the awful trouble the peasants have 
in breeding the silkworms. They aren't only bred 
in China — but in Italy as well it seems. And then 
the silk has to be spun and woven. 

John [sarcastically]. At Lyons. 
[14] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act 1 

Anne. Precisely. At Lyons. And then the fur 
and the trimmings and the lace 

John [as before]. That you can always use over 
again 

Anne [ignoring his tone]. Not to mention the 
making up of the material, the choosing, and de- 
signing, and combining. Really, come to think of it, 
you and I, if we had to do it all ourselves 

John. But it's not our business 

Anne. I'm only saying — if we had to do it all 
ourselves — we wouldn't begin to touch it for twice the 
sum. So you see fifty-five's really nothing for a 
dress — really. 

John. Particularly when a man's wife wants it in 
order to show as much as possible of herself to a fat, 
old, influential man. So that her husband can get 
on in the world, and she can get more dresses to show 
herself to other fat, old, influential men; and so on, 
and so on, and so on. 

Anne [snapping]. You're perfectly vile! I've a 
good mind not to go at all. 

John. That's all I ask of you. 

Anne. And that's just why I am going. Even if 
I wanted to, I shouldn't stay at home now. 

John. I'm going to telephone we're not coming. 
[15 1 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

Anne. Telephone what you like; I'm going. 

John. You wouldn't dare without me. 

Anne. Wouldn't I? 

John. You [He fumbles with rage, controls 

himself, and says finally with infinite pity.] You can't 
be feeling well, my poor dear. 

Anne. That's the lowest thing I've ever heard 
you say. Not feeling well indeed! And my head 
pounding like a thousand hammers. [She drinks off 
her headache powder.] 

John. Exactly. 

Anne [gulping]. Exactly not Cave man! 

Please leave me, will you? Please. I've taken my 
powder. I want to lie down. [She lies down on the 
couch, drawing a cover about her.] 

John. Shall I tuck you up? 

Anne. Thank you, no. I don't allow cave men 
to tuck me up. They might stab me in the back 
while they're about it. 

John [pleadingly]. Anne! 

Anne [dryly]. No, thank you. 

John [after a pause]. Anne! 

Anne. No ! 

John. Oh, very well, then — don't. 

[He goes off furiously by the door right. 
[16 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

Anne [turning round and making a face after him]. 

Beast! Beast! Sometimes you [She puts out 

an arm and turns off the light. Only the firelight shines 
upon her. The rest of the room is in darkness. Anne 
gives a stifled yawn then mumbles to herself.] Oh, Lord ! 
Cocoons — Silk — Sables — the East End — Cave man. 

Yes — that's what he is — Cave man — Cocoons If 

we had to do it all ourselves Fifty-five 

[The firelight fades away. The scene is left in 
darkness.] 

Scene II : As the lights go up the room has changed. 
All the furniture has disappeared. Only the front 
part of the room, up to the arch, remains. This 
"frame" stands for all the scenes. 

Beyond the arch is seen the interior of a peasant's 
house near the Lake of Como. In the centre at the 
back are two windows which look out on a mountain- 
ous district. All along the walls, between the win- 
dows and beyond, run shelves about twenty inches 
apart covered with mulberry leaves. 

To the left there is apparently [out of sight] a fire- 
place. Logs of wood are piled up by the arch. A 
rough stool or two stand about as well as two or three 
big baskets filled with leaves. 
[17] 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

Note. None of the following sets have anything 
but backgrounds — no "side pieces." The scenes 
should be like pictures and extend apparently indefi- 
nitely left and right beyond their frame [the arch of 
the boudoir]. 

Pronunciations in Scene: Peo like Payo; Mascia- 
dro like Mashadro; Gioann like Jo-an. 

Peo [Pompeo], a simple peasant boy of twenty- 
three, is standing on a stool supplying the silkworms 
with fresh midberry leaves. He is dressed in a shirt 
without a collar, and sleeves rolled up to his elbow — 
a pair of rough trousers turned up halfway to the 
knees, showing bare legs and feet. As he works he is 
singing lustily the popular song of " Tripoli." 

Outside the windows, from left to right, comes 
Nina. She passes the windows quickly and comes 
in from the right. She is a charming peasant girl 
of nineteen. The spectator realizes that she has the 
same features as Anne of the boudoir — in fact is 
Anne physically. She is dressed like the peasant 
women of the district: a short, thick, full skirt, an 
apron, a brilliant kerchief crosses on her breast. In 
her hair she wears the elaborate silver headdress of 
Northern Italy, and from her ears dangle a pair of 
large gold earrings. 

[18] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

Nina. Peo, my Peo! 

[Peo comes down from the stool and embraces 
her. In doing so he upsets his basket of 
mulberry leaves.] 

Peo. Nina ! 

Nina. Oh, the leaves! 

Peo. Oh, let the leaves go! How beautiful you 
are, my Ninetta. 

Nina. I've made myself beautiful for you. 

Peo. I never knew you had a silver headdress. 
Where did you get it? 

Nina [half anxiously]. Suppose some other man 
had given it to me? 

Peo [breathless]. Nina! Nina! It's not true? 

Nina [laughing]. There! Don't get jealous. I'm 
only teasing you. It belonged to my poor mother. 

Peo. The kerchief, too? It seems quite 

new. 

Nina [glibly]. Oh, yes, that, too. Both. [Quickly.] 
Have you seen the earrings, Peo? Who's the man 
that gave me those I wonder? 

Peo [kissing her]. Don't tease me like that again. 
I'd kill anybody that looked at you. 

Nina. As bad as that? But, Peo! Dearest! 
Why aren't you ready? We must go to the priest's 
[19] 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

at once. Ten o'clock he said. And then to the 
Mayor, to fix the day and the hour. 

Peo. Nina! To think that in a week we'll be 
married ! 

Nina. And living in the little farm up the moun- 
tain, with our own linen and our own kitchen and 
our own cow. For we'll have a cow as soon as we 
can, won't we, Peo? 

Peo [scratching his head]. As soon as we can — 
yes. Only it takes a lot of money to marry, Nina. 
A whole sackful. These earrings alone mean three 
months' putting-by. And now with getting the little 

house! If it wasn't for the blessed silkworm 

[He begins to collect the scattered leaves.] Do you 
know what I've said to myself these five weeks 
watching and feeding them here — and sitting up 
nights with them to keep the rooms just at the right 
heat — "Only wait till you've spun. Wait till we've 
sold you! Nina's there! Nina's waiting for 
me!" 

Nina [laughing blissfully]. Ha! Ha! And I've 
said the same thing hemming my last sheets and 
pillow cases, whenever my padrona would let me, 
that is. "Five weeks! And the crop's ours. The 
whole crop." 

[20] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

Peo. Yes. Think of my brother letting us have 
it all. 

Nina. Oh, he's good, your brother. An angel. 

Peo. You should have heard his wife last night 
when he confessed to her what he'd promised us. 
Such curses I never heard ! Never ! 

Nina. Never mind. He's promised. And all 
this waiting, these long, long three years will be over 
at last — the Virgin be praised. [They embrace 
again.] And now quick, my Peo. Put on your 
coat and your boots. We must go. 

Peo. But who's to watch the fire? 

Nina. Where's your brother? 

Peo. He sat up all last night watching it. He's 
sleeping. 

Nina. And his wife? 

Peo. Down at the market. 

Nina. What are we to do? Time's going — and 
the priest waiting and my padrona won't let me off 
another morning this week. So if you don't go to- 
day [Breaking off as she looks out of the window.] 

Oh! Grisa! Grisa! [She raps on the window. Out- 
side an old, gray-haired, wrinkled peasant woman is 
seen to pass. She carries a basket on her arm. She 
is dressed in very shabby clothes of the poorest kind.] 
[21] 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

Nina [motioning to her through the window]. Come 
in! Come in, Grisa! Come round and in. I want 
to speak to you. 

[La Grisa nods and passing by the window 
to the right disappears.] 
Why shouldn't we get her to see to the fire? It'll only 
be for an hour or so. 

Peo. All the damage can be done in less than an 
hour. You know that. If the fire isn't kept up, 
with that cold wind outside, before you can know it 
the silkworms'll 

La Grisa appears from the right. 

La Grisa. Good morning, Nina. Good morn- 
ing, Peo. Eh, the happy couple! The blessed 
couple! Oh, what sweet earrings! So that's what 
they're like! No wonder! No wonder! 

Peo. No wonder — what? 

La Grisa. No wonder your brother's wife is tell- 
ing everybody about them all over the market place. 

Nina. Oh, is she? You come from the market, 
do you? 

La Grisa. Yes — sold my butter — all but one 
piece. [She sJwws it in her basket.] You don't want 
any butter? 

[22 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

Nina. We can't afford butter now we're going to 
get married, can we, Peo? 

La Grisa. We can't afford butter, but we can 
afford earrings. 

Nina. Every bride has her gold earrings. You 
had yours, too. 

La Grisa. Yes. But they didn't stay with me 
very long. Tonio gave them and Tonio drank them 
away. I only hope your husband'll treat you better 
than Tonio has me. 

Nina [taking Peo's hand, smiling at him]. I don't 
think there's much to fear from Peo. 

La Grisa. That's what we all think beforehand. 
They say shiny words and give us shiny things and 
That's a fine kerchief he's given you. 

Nina [quickly, dropping Peo's hand], Peo didn't 
give me this. This was my mother's. 

La Grisa. Your mother's? That was never your 
mother's. They never made that pattern in her day, 
I know. 

Nina [definitely]. I tell you it was. 

La Grisa. Don't try to make me believe that. 
Just because you want me to think Peo's too poor 
to buy my butter, I tell you 

Nina [eagerly], Peo, do go and get ready. And 
[23] 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

I'll persuade La Grisa to stay and see to the fire. 
[She gives him a kiss and urges him to the left.] Do. 

[Peo nods and goes off. 
Grisa, you will, won't you? Just while we go to the 
priest? 

La Grisa. I have to get back to the fields to help 
Tonio. 

Nina. Just a tiny half -hour, Grisa? 

La Grisa. A tiny half -hour? And me with my 
butter unsold and Tonio waiting? 

Nina. I tell you. I know they want butter at the 
inn. Run over and sell it and come back. You 
know you like sitting before the fire when the wind 
blows wild like to-day. [Coaxing.] Come, Grisa. 
You and my mother were like two sisters. You 
might do this for me. 

La Grisa. Very well. If I can get rid of the 
butter. [She moves to the right as if to go.] Tell me, 
Nina. That kerchief. What's the secret about 
that? 

Nina. There's no secret. 

La Grisa. What made you say to Peo you got it 
from your mother? I priced one exactly like it to- 
day — at the Masciadro's. 

Nina. The Masciadro? What Masciadro? 
124 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

La Grisa. The one that drives through the 
village every Tuesday with his van all bright with 
laces and ribbons and stuffs. You know: the dark 
fellow. 

Nina. Gioann? But this isn't Tuesday. To- 
day's not his day. 

La Grisa. Go to the market and see for your- 
self. 

Nina [troubled]. Blessed Mary! What is he do- 
ing here to-day? [She has gone to the window and 
draws back from it with a little cry.] Oh! 

La Grisa. What's the matter? 

Nina. I — I thought I saw him. 

La Grisa. Who? 

Nina. Him. The Masciadro! 

La Grisa. Well, why not? Doesn't he often 
lock up his van and come and cry his wares down 
the narrow lanes? 

Nina. It is! And he's seen me, too! Saints! 
What shall I do? 

La Grisa [surprised]. Nina! What is the mat- 
ter? What is it? 

[At the window appears a man of thirty. He is 
handsome in a common way, with a flashy 
suit and a soft felt hat. Over his arm he carries 
[25] 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

a number of stuffs, kerchiefs, etc. His manner 
is that of an expert salesman: he looks curiously 
like John — but his name is Gioann.] 
Gioann [through the window]. Nina! May I 
come in, Nina? 

Nina [her back to the window, whispering to Grisa]. 
Let's pretend not to notice him. 
La Grisa. But why? Why? 
Nina [nervously]. I don't know! 

[Gioann knocking on the window outside.] 
Gioann. Don't you hear me, Nina? 
Nina [desperately, turning with exaggerated man- 
ner]. Masciadro! You! What a pleasure ! Come 
in! Come in! 

[Gioann bows suavely and disappears to the right. 
Oh! [Eagerly to La Grisa.] Go sell your butter, 
Grisa. And come back quick. 

La Grisa [inquisitively]. What's all this? 
Nina. Nothing! Nothing! 

Gioann enters. Though apparently polite he is 
extremely sarcastic. 

Gioann. My compliments. Dressed for a festa? 
How pretty pretty things look on a pretty woman — 
[turning to La Grisa] — don't they? 
[26 1 






MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

[Nina stands biting her lips.] 

Gioann. The handkerchief and the headdress par- 
ticularly. Very fine. Almost as fine as the earrings, 
I should say. 

Nina [definitely]. I prefer the earrings. 

Gioann. Evidently. 

Nina [to La Grisa]. Go, Grisa! Go now! But 
come back presently — won't you? 

La Grisa [looking from one to the other suspi- 
ciously]. Yes, I'll come back. I'll only just sell my 

butter and [She takes up her basket and goes off 

to the right.] 

Gioann [after a pause]. So. Now — what have 
you got to say for yourself? Eh? 

Nina [on the defensive]. What should I have to 
say for myself? 

Gioann. What should you have ? 

Nina [tossing her head]. I've done nothing. 

Gioann. Done nothing? Letting a man come 
to your door week after week, and making him be- 
lieve you're free, and taking things from him — that's 
nothing, is it? 

Nina. I'd give 'em back to you here and now — 
your stupid, ugly, old things! — only Peo thinks 
they were my mother's. 

[27 1 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

Gioann. Oh! So you've lied to him, too? 

Nina. I never lied to you, anyhow. You could 
have asked the whole village about Peo and me. 

Gioann. You made me swear not to speak to a 
soul about it. 

Nina [pitifully — after a desperate look at Gioann]. 
I wanted the things so much, so much. Not a bride 
in the village but has her kerchief and silver head- 
dress. And I had none. And no one to give them 
to me — no father, no mother, or brother. And I 
couldn't go to Peo without them. 

Gioann. You couldn't buy 'em and pay for 'em 
honestly like other girls perhaps? 

Nina. All the money that I'd earned at the 
farm I'd spent on our house linen. I hadn't a 
soldo left. Not a one. And just then — you came 
to the door and dangled the kerchief before my eyes 
and I said "No." Remember, I said "No." And 
then you came again the week after, and again. 
And then you offered to give it to me for nothing. 
[Fiercely.] You know you did. And the headdress, 
too. 

Gioann. Yes. Precisely. After you'd kissed 
me. 

[Nina turns away indignantly.] 
[28] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

Oh, yes. You kissed me. And more than once. 
You're not going to deny that, I suppose? And 
all the time you were making a fool of me, were 
you? Nothing but a fool? D'you know why I 
came to the village to-day instead of Tuesday? 
To take you to the priest, that's why. And when 
I heard in the market this morning that you were 

going to him with another, I Ha ! A beautiful 

morning! A wonderful morning for me! 

Nina. You're not going to tell Peo? You won't 
do that, will you? I'll pay for the things. Some- 
how, I'll do it. It'll take time, but I'll pay. 

Gioann. If you had the money here now, in 
your hand — do you think I'd take it? Money? 
Can money make up for what you've done to me? 

Nina. You are not going to tell him? He'd kill 
me if he found out. 

Gioann [derisively]. Oh! 

Nina. Oh, yes, he would. You don't know Peo. 
You won't tell him? [Laying her hand on his arm, 
coaxingly.] Will you? 

Gioann [catching her smile, turning suddenly on 
her fiercely]. Oh, you! You! [He puts his hands 
round her throat violently.] It's vain, silly sluts like 
you that send a man to hell. 
[29 1 



Act 1 MY LADY'S DRESS 

Nina [gives a frightened shriek]. Oh! 

Gioann [throwing her off]. Don't worry. I'm 
not Peo. I'm not going to risk my skin for a crea- 
ture like you. Nor my trade neither for that matter. 
[He stands panting a moment.] Is it true what his 
brother's wife says — that he's giving you this crop 
of silkworms so you can get married? 

Nina. Yes. We couldn't get married except 
for that. 

Gioann. You have nothing else? Neither Peo 
nor you? 

Nina. Nothing. And we've waited so long. 
Three years almost. You — you won't tell — will 
you? 

Gioann. No. I shan't tell him. 

Nina [joyfu lly] . Ah ! 

Gioann. I've got a much better way than that. 
I'm going to ruin your crop. 

Nina. Ruin the crop? 

Gioann. Yes. While you go to the priest with 
your Peo, I shall open the windows here. 

Nina. You won't. 

Gioann. Half an hour of cold wind and all your 
nice, fat silkworms will be chilled through and 
through. And in a day or two, when I'm far away 
[30 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

on the road, they'll be drooping and dying. And 
your Peo'll wonder what's the reason. But you 
won't. 

Nina. You're joking. 

Gioann. Oh, no, I'm not joking. You've spoilt 
my life, I spoil yours. That's merely squaring 
accounts. 

Nina [triumphantly]. Ah, but you can't, you 
can't. La Grisa is coming to watch the fire. 

Gioann. I'll soon get rid of La Grisa. 

Nina. If you do, it'll be years before we can get 
married. 

Gioann. Oh, no! Once you've settled with the 
priest, you'll marry anyway. Only you'll begin in 
debt, and you'll never get out of it. And you'll 
have to work, and work, and work. And it won't be 
long before there'll be children. And still you'll 
have to work. And in a few years — a very few — my 
beautiful Nina, you'll be old and worn like La 
Grisa herself. 

Nina. I won't. 

Gioann. Oh, yes! But what do you care? 

You'll have your bright kerchief and your silver 

headdress — even if they have cost you gray hairs 

and wrinkles long before your time. And I'll 

[311 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

watch them coming, every week I drive through the 

village — I'll watch and 

Nina [tearing off the kerchief]. Take it! Take it! 
It burns me. [She puts her hand to her headdress.] 

They burn me both 

Gioann [calmly]. I wouldn't have them back 
now, not for the whole world. This is giving me far 
too much pleasure, far too much. No! Put it on 
again, my love, or your jealous Peo will wonder 
what we've been up to — we two. 

[Nina stands impotently twisting the kerchief in 
her hands. Peo is heard singing.] 
Gioann. Quick! Quick! Put it on again, my 
pretty! That's right! That's right. 

[Nina obeys Gioann against her will. Peo 
reenters, his hair brushed and his coat and 
boots on.] 
Peo. Ah, the Masciadro ! I'm afraid we can buy 
nothing from you to-day, Masciadro! 

Gioann. I haven't come to sell. I've only come 
to congratulate you, Peo. You've picked a pearl, 
as they say. One in a thousand. So beautiful, and 
young, and simple, and virtuous. I almost envy 
you — if you'll allow me to say so. 
Peo. Thanks, thanks. 

[32 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

[They shake hands. Ten o'clock strikes on the 
church tower]. 
Ten o'clock. We must go, Nina. 

Nina. Yes, yes. But La Grisa isn't back 
yet. 

Peo. Where is she? Where is she? 

Gioann. I'll stay here and watch the fire if you 
like. I happen to have a little account to put 
straight. [He takes out a little notebook, smiling at 
Nina.] 

Peo. That is very good of you. Isn't it, Nina? 

Nina. Very. 

Gioann. Oh, it's quite selfish on my part, believe 
me. Thinking of my future customers, you see. 
Shall I? 

Nina [at the window]. There's La Grisa coming 
now! 

Peo [to Gioann]. La Grisa promised to. Thank 
you all the same. And as soon as we can afford it, 
we'll come to you for all sorts of things, won't we, 
Nina? 

[La Grisa passes the window quickly.] 

Gioann. Kerchiefs and headdresses and things 
like that— eh? 

Peo. Oh, Nina has no need of kerchiefs and head- 
[33] 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

dresses. She had them both from her poor mother. 
And would you believe it? The kerchief's still as 
good as new. Look! 

Gioann. I see. Quite as good. [Jokingly.] Bet- 
ter in fact. It costs her nothing. 

Peo. Ha! Ha! Exactly! It costs her nothing. 

La Grisa reenters. 

La Grisa. They don't want my butter at the inn. 
So I can't stay here, Nina ! 

Peo. What shall we do? 

Gioann [to La Grisa]. Have you tried the rich 
padrona at the Villa Tasso? 

La Grisa. What? The one right down at the 
other end of the village? 

Gioann. Yes. Her cook was asking for you all 
over the market. 

Nina [fiercely]. Don't you believe him, Grisa! 

Gioann [with a hard smile at Nina]. And why 
shouldn't she believe me? It's true — as true as that 
Peo is going to marry Nina. 

Peo [with a grin]. Then it's true indeed! Ha! 
Ha! 

La Grisa. The Villa Tasso! She pays well. 
Two soldi a pound more than any one else. Good 
[34 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

morning, Nina — Peo. The Madonna bless you 
both. Thank you, Gioann! Two soldi more! He! 
He! [She is gone, chuckling. 

Peo. Horrible old face, isn't it? 

Gioann. Yes, and she's not so very old either. 
Work and worry I should say. Well, so I'm to 
watch the fire after all? 

Peo. If you will. 

Gioann. Delighted! Delighted to do anything 
for you and your beautiful young bride. 

Peo. And you'll be very careful to keep the room 
warm? 

Gioann. Don't worry. I know what's wanted. 

Peo. Because if anything happened to the silk- 
worms now, just as they're going to spin ! My 

brother will never give us another crop. Trust his 
wife for that. This means everything to us, doesn't 
it, Nina? 

Nina. Yes — everything. [Desperately.] Oh, do 
come, Peo, come! Come! 

Peo. Impatient, are you? [To Gioann with a 
grin.] Impatient! [He takes her face in his hands 
and kisses it fondly.] Ha! Ha! Come ! 

Nina. Peo! [She pushes him to the door and he 
goes. She then turns pleading to Gioann.] 
[35] 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

Gioann [looking her up and down impudently]. 

God be with you — [with intention, making a face at 

her] — Grisa ! 

[Peo's voice outside: "Nina!" Nina goes off 
desperately. Gioann stands still until the 
couple pass at the window. He nods to them 
pleasantly. After another moment he goes to 
one window and opens it, then crosses to the 
other and opens that. As he does so the 
scene vanishes.] 

Scene III : The little living-room in a weaver's house 
at the Croix Rousse, a suburb of Lyons. 

The room is cut off by a thin partition [with a large 
glass window left and a door centre] from the work- 
room beyond, in which stand the looms. 

The place is very simply, but spotlessly, furnished. 
To the left stands a table with two chairs [just under 
the window in the partition], to the right a large up- 
holstered chair with a wheel for winding the silk on 
bobbins. A little lamp stands on a small table near 
the wheel. The table left receives its light through the 
window in the partition. 

In the large chair right sits Nicolas, a man of 
about twenty-eight, emaciated by illness. He is 
[36] 






MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

working at the wheel, winding bobbins very carefully 
with threads of gold. Every now and then a fit of 
coughing stops his work for a moment or two. When 
he gets back his breathy he goes on with his winding. 

Through the window a woman of about twenty- 
five, Annette [dressed in a plain, neat dress and 
a long, blue apron dotted with large white spots] may 
be seen busily weaving at the loom. Her face is 
hidden by the machinery, but by the color of her hair 
and figure, she singularly recalls Anne. 

The clacking of the loom and buzzing of the wheel 
continue for a few moments. Then the noise of the 
loom ceases. At the same time there is a knock at 
the door left [which is out of sight]. 
Nicolas [calls out in a feeble voice]. Come in! 
Come in! 

[The handle of the door is heard to turn and 
Pere Simon enters. He is a rubicund, 
white-haired old weaver of seventy, who wears 
glasses and a funny round smoking cap, such 
as were worn in the sixties of the last century. 
His clothes, too, are of an old-fashioned cut. 
On his feet neat black sabots.] 
P. Simon. Couldn't hear whether ye said come in 
or not — but I've come in all the same. 
[37] 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

Nico.las [half turning in his chair]. Ah, Pere 

Simon ! Good morning ! Good mor [He starts 

coughing.] 

P. Simon [shaking his hand]. Thought I'd just run 
downstairs for a moment. Well, how goes it this 
morning? 

Nicolas . Oh, worse, worse — always worse — thanks. 

P. Simon. You seem better though, to-day — 
somehow. Have a fresher look. 

Nicolas [grimly]. As they said about the corpse 
just before they screwed the coffin up. 

P. Simon. Nonsense! Wait till spring. 

Nicolas [bitterly], I'll never last till spring. 

P. Simon. I'm afraid you've had a bad night. 

Nicolas. Thank you. Hardly slept a wink. 
What between coughing and the damn loom going all 
the time. 

P. Simon. You've not been trying to work? 

Nicolas. No. But Annette has. She was at 
it till all hours. [He coughs.] We have to deliver 
the silk to-day, you see. I took the order on — oh, 
months ago; before I was taken ill. At least as ill as 
I'm now. Though I've always had this in me — this 
— [tapping his chest] — this — thing. 

P. Simon [in the regular tone used to patients]. We 
[38 1 






MY, LADY'S DRESS Act I 

all have something wrong with us. It's merely a 
matter of looking after ourselves a little 

Nicolas [impatiently]. Oh, don't try to feed me 
with the usual invalid's pap! I'm no fool. And I 
don't care a hang about myself. But it's Annette 
there! So young and pretty, and — and working her 
heart out because of me. If I were only safe under 
the ground, there might be some chance for her then. 

P. Simon [protesting]. You mustn't 

Nicolas. It's bad enough for a strong man — 
this weaver's life! But when it comes to a woman 
who has a dead husband hanging round her neck 

P. Simon. Nicolas! You have no right to let 
yourself talk like this. It's downright sinful — noth- 
ing less. 

Nicolas. Sinful! I don't see where the sinful 
comes in! I'd like to know what earthly sense there 
is in my living on like this? What good am I, any- 
how? Can you tell me that? 

P. Simon. I don't know. But the dear Lord 
puts us all here for something and keeps us here for 
something, you may be sure. Even if we never 
find out just how we help. It doesn't matter. Ex- 
actly like each thread on the loom, I always think. 
We serve somehow — that's certain. 
[39 1 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

Nicolas. I'll never believe it. Never. The 
whole thing's a joke — a huge joke that's being played 
on us. 

[Annette enters carrying a roll of silk. She 
looks tired and draggled, her fair hair hang- 
ing about her face. But when she comes to 
Nicolas, she puts on a bright smile and cheer- 
ful manner.] 
Annette. Nicolas! I've got it done, the piece. 
It's ready. [She lays the roll on the table left.] 

Nicolas. Have you, my dear! She's a marvel, 
isn't she, Pere Simon? 

Annette. Ah, I never saw you. [She comes and 
shakes hands with Pere Simon.] I can hardly see 
anything this morning. I've been staring so at the 
threads all night. Well, what do you say to my 
man? Don't you think he looks much better? [She 
gives Nicolas a gentle kiss.] 

P. Simon. I was just telling him. 
Annette. I'll get your milk now. You'd like it 
warmed a little, wouldn't you? 

Nicolas. Yes. [He smiles at her.] 
Annette [patting him, as to a child]. Well, you 
shall have it warmed. There! 

[She goes off to the right. 
[40] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

P.Simon. Ah, the women! The women! What 
would we do without 'em? Have you ever seen a 
weaver make a success of it without a wife? Dusty 
looms and dirty floors — and before you know it the 
silk dealers refuse him work, and the place is sold up, 

and 

[Outside, to the left, some one is heard whis- 
tling loudly a popular French tune.] 
P. Simon. Now there's a case in point. You 
know who that is, of course. 
Nicolas. Joanny. 

P. Simon. Of course it's Joanny. Look what's 
become of him since Therese ran away. A drunken, 
dissolute sot — that's what he's become. And yet 
there wasn't a better worker in the whole of the Croix 

Rousse before 

[A knock is heard on the door left and without 
waiting for a "Come in" Joanny (pro- 
nounced Jo-ahny) appears. He is a man of 
about thirty, with a dissolute but witty face, 
plenty of thick, dark hair, and a little bristling, 
upturned moustache. His features curiously 
recall the features of John. He wears the 
loose velvet trousers of the French workman but 
not the sash — an ordinary coat and waistcoat. 
[41] 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

In his coat pocket a bottle of red wine. A 

small cap is stuck on the back of his head. On 

his shoulder he carries a roll of silk wrapped 

round a cylindrical piece of wood. The silk 

is covered with a piece of paper and neatly tied 

up with tapes. All through the scene Joanny's 

manner is just slightly elated by drink, but 

not exaggeratedly so.] 

Joanny [depositing his roll of silk near the table]. 

Morning, everybody. What! The old philosopher 

here, too! Talking about heaven and earth, is he? 

Or running me down? Which is it this time, eh? 

[He pats Pere Simon on the back.] 

P. Simon [annoyed]. Get away! You positively 
reek of drink. 

Joanny [showing his bottle]. Oozing out of every 
pocket, isn't it? 

P. Simon. Joanny! You'll come to a bad 
end. 

Joanny. Will come, Pere Simon? Have come 
and turned round again. I'm on my way back to 
perfection. When I'm seventy — Kke you — I dare 
say I'll be a saint. 

P. Simon. In my day, young men had some sort of 
reverence for old people. 

f 42 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

Joanny. Who's fault is that nowadays? The 
young men's or the old people's? 

P. Simon [snorts violently]. Oh! 

Joanny. Come, Pere Simon. You've been a 
gay dog in your time. Don't pretend. 

P. Simon. Oh! 

Joanny. There! There, old bird! Don't get 
ruffled ! I didn't come here to insult you. I only came 
to see the illustrious invalid. How are you, Nicolas? 

Nicolas. I'm feeling no better. 

Joanny. That's right. That's right. What's 
the use of being an invalid if you can't feel like the 
devil? Splendid! 

P. Simon [irritated]. I'll go, I think. 

Joanny. Do, by all means. 

P. Simon [to Nicolas, shaking his hand]. If there's 
anything you want — just tell Annette to come up- 
stairs and 

[Annette reenters with a glass of hot milk, 
which she gives to Nicolas.] 
Oh, that reminds me — Annette — if you like, I'll carry 
your piece of silk down to the merchant's as soon as 
it's ready. 

Joanny. Now that's too bad of you. Precisely 
what I came to propose to Annette. 
[43 1 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

P. Simon [sarcastically]. Oh, no doubt! 
Joanny. I did, really. Believe me or not. We 
had the same order, Nicolas and I. The same 
pattern and colors, from the same merchant. So 

naturally, our work being alike 

P.Simon. Alike! Don't flatter yourself that any 
work of yours could ever be like any work of Nicolas. 
Joanny. A gentle dig at my habits, I suppose? 
Have I guessed right? 

P. Simon. Well, I've yet to see the weaver that 
can do decent work under the continual influence of 
alcohol. Good morning. 

[Pere Simon goes out to left. The door is heard 
to close. Nicolas in his chair laughs sarcas- 
tically at Joanny, his laugh ending in a cough. 
Joanny stands biting his lip a moment, 
bitterly.] 
Joanny. Old idiot! He isn't right this time. 
Bring over that lamp a moment, Annette. I want 
to show you something. [He undoes the tapes and 
takes the paper off his piece of silk. Annette mean- 
while takes the lamp away from her husband's table.] 
They all say I can't weave any more. Simply be- 
cause I — well, a man's got to have some sort of wife, 
hasn't he? And if mine's run away and I choose to 
[44 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

take up with Mademoiselle Piquette — [he taps his 
bottle] — what business is it of his — or theirs — or any- 
body's? 

Annette. Yes, Joanny. yes. Only it does seem 
a pity, such a good workman like you 

Joanny. Oh, d'you think my rosy little bride — [he 
shows his bottle] — is going to prevent my working well 
if I've a mind to? Look at this. You know what 
this pattern means. You've woven it yourself 
there. [He points to the other piece.] Does this smell 
of alcohol, this? 

Annette [looking at it]. It's beautiful work. 

Joanny. Of course it is ! I thought I'd just show 
them I can weave if I choose to — bottle or no 
bottle. 

Annette. Of course you can. 

Joanny. The fools! D'you know they've talked 
it all over the quarter. I'm the disgrace, the thing 
to point at and spit at. It's even got down to Lyons, 
to the silk merchants. And when I go for orders to 
the different houses, they hum and haw before they'll 
give me anything to do. Would you believe it, 
the agent here for this piece, he's come up a dozen 
times at least in the last month to see whether I was 
really at the loom or not. I gave him a bit of my 
[45 1 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

tongue the last time he popped his sleek, shiny face 
in at the door. 

Annette. Monsieur Rondier? 

Joanny. Yes, Rondier. The baby! To talk to 
me like that! 

Annette. He came in here, too, once or twice. 
And I've had to be so careful about Nicolas. He 
mustn't know he's ill, or we won't get any more orders. 
They don't believe in women doing the big weaving. 
[Dropping her voice.] And they're right, too. They 
can't. It's too hard for them. They haven't the 
strength. [With a glance at Nicolas's chair.] Look 

at that! [She points to her piece of silk.] It's 

[She shakes her head, making a wry face.] 

Joanny. It won't be so bad when you've picked 
up the loose threads. 

Annette [putting her fingers to her lips, indicating 
that Nicolas is not to hear; in a casual voice]. Nic- 
olas! Have some more milk? 
[Nicolas doesnt answer.] 

Annette [after a pause, in a whisper to Joanny]. 
He's asleep. The warm milk. It always sends him 
off for a bit. [Pointing to her work.] No. It's bad 
work. Bad. I only pray to God when the agent 
comes to-day that he'll pass it. You see I've stayed 
[46 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

up these last five nights to get it done. We want the 
money — every sou of it. He drinks a lot of milk 
now, you see. And he can't do much, only wind 
the bobbins. And then there's the rent, of course. 
And the doctor! Oh! It's terrible — I can tell 

you. And it's going to be terrible, till [She stares 

before her. Joanny looks at the silk rather desper- 
ately; then breaks into a low laugh.] 

Annette. What is it? 

Joanny. I don't know. I was only thinking; 
funny life, isn't it? Here we are both of us: you 
with your useless husband, and me with my worse 
than useless wife! 

Annette. She was so pretty! 

Joanny. Too pretty. 

Annette. Do you ever hear from her nowa- 
days? 

Joanny [bitterly]. Oh, yes. Not from her direct, 
but about her — more than enough. She has her 
own motor now in Paris. And a footman, too, I'm 
told. Very grand. 

Annette. Why don't you divorce her? 

Joanny. What for? Marry again when I've 
got — [tapping his bottle] — this faithful friend? No, 
thank you. 

[47] 



Act 1 MY LADY'S DRESS 

[There is a knock on the door left. Annette goes 
to open it. Joanny stands fingering An- 
nette's piece of stuff.] 
Annette's Voice. Oh, good morning, Monsieur 
Rondier. Do come in! 

Rondier's Voice. I only came to see if the or- 
der's ready. We must have the silk to-day. 

[Rondier appears, a young man of twenty-two 
or three, well dressed, very polite, but distinctly 
superior and self-important. When he ex- 
amines the silk, he does so through a little 
square pocket magnifying glass, such as is 
used for linen. He carries a soft felt hat in 
his hand.] 
Annette. Yes. It's ready. Won't you sit 
down? I'll just wake my husband. He's been 
working all night to get it done. 

Rondier. No! Don't! Don't! [Seeing Jo- 
anny.] Oh, you're here, are you? 

Joanny. Now, there's a pretty surprise for you, 
eh? 

Annette [by Nicolas's chair, gently]. Nicolas! 
Rondier. No! Let him sleep. He deserves it. 
[Looking at the silk.] Splendid! Splendid! Ha! 
One can always tell Nicolas's work at a glance. 
[48 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

Joanny. Can one? 

Rondier. I can, at any rate. I suppose — [draw- 
ing over the other silk disdainfully] — this — is yours? 

Joanny. How could you guess? 

Annette [coming back from Nicolas's chair, seeing 
Rondier's mistake]. But that 

Joanny [lays his hand on Annette's arm, arrest- 
ing her, and winking at her. Then turns to Rondier]. 
Well? And what do you say to my work, Monsieur 
le Prince? 

Rondier [sententiously]. Precisely what I ex- 
pected it would be. Look at that thread. And 
that! And there again. Never saw such work- 
manship in my life. If you think the house is going 
to accept rubbish like this 

Annette [with a start]. Oh! 

Rondier [to her]. No, no. Don't pity him. 
It's a disgrace ! That's what it is. Half pay's all you 
get on this. And if I had my way no pay at all. 
You can take it from me; this is the last time you've 
had an order from us, and no mistake. 

Annette [though held back by Joanny]. But 

Rondier. No, no. Don't plead for him. You 
women are far too soft hearted. This is business. 
[With a smile.] And tell your husband to get his 
[49] 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

silk down by noon — not later. Good morning, 
Madame. 

[He bows and goes off to the left. The door 
is heard to close.] 

Annette. What do you mean by stopping me? 
He's got to know sooner or later. You've only made 
it worse by this. 

Joanny. He doesn't need to know. In fact — 
[after a pause] — he mustn't know. 

Annette. But he must. 

Joanny. Not if you don't tell him. 

Annette. But I've got to. 

Joanny. Not at all. It's very simple. Just as 
he said — [pointing to the silks] — this is your work 
now — [pointing to his own] — and this — [pointing to 
Annette's] — this is mine. 

Annette. But it isn't. 

Joanny. It is — if we say so. And we will say 
so. That's all. 

Annette. You mean I'm to take your work and 
pass it off as mine? 

Joanny. That's about it. 

Annette. Oh, but I can't do that. It wouldn't 
be fair. 

Joanny. Oh, it's perfectly fair as long as I'm 
[50] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

willing. Whose business is it but ours — if we choose 
to have a little secret between us? 

Annette. Oh, but I couldn't — couldn't accept 
such a sacrifice. 

Jo ann y. Sacrifice — pooh! Why use such a big 

word? 

Annette. Oh, but it is a sacrifice. It would be 

— that is. 

Joanny. It isn't — it isn't at all. What does it 
matter to me? 

Annette. To begin with, you'd only get half 
pay. 

Joanny. Well, why not? I don't need the money. 
After all, I'm quite alone in the world. My rosy 
bride don't cost me the tenth of what your poor 
Nicolas does you. 

Annette. Yes, but even so. Your future work 
— your reputation. 

Joanny. My reputation! Aha! That's just it! 
My reputation's as rotten as can be. I've been doing 
vile work for months and months. They expect it 
of me. In fact, they'd be furious with me if they 

didn't get it. So you see 

[Annette makes a protesting gesture.] 

No, seriously, I mean it. It's different with Nicolas. 

[51] 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

He can't afford to get a bad name. The money 
means too much to him just now — you said so your- 
self. He has to have a lot of milk. And after all, 
Annette — [very gently] — it may not be for very long. 
You know that as well as I. 

Annette. Yes, I know that. 

Joanny. Well, then? Why not? [With an effort 
at chaffing.] Or perhaps my work isn't good enough 
for you? Is that it? Eh? 

Annette [smiling, her eyes filling with tears]. Oh, 
Joanny! Joanny! [She sits down, bursting into 
tears.] 

Joanny. Good God! What's the matter now? 

Annette. I can't help it. It's not the dreadful 
things in life that make us cry; it's the good things. 
This is too wonderful — too wonderful of you. 

Joanny [deprecatingly]. Oh, yes. Wonderful! Of 
course. 

Annette. It is! It is! Here I've been working 
day and night this week to keep the house together, 
and then with one word, that boy was going to 

wipe it all out, and then you — you [She sobs 

again.] 

Joanny. Now — now — now. Pull yourself to- 
gether. This won't do — or I shall have to burst into 
[52 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act I 

tears myself. And you wouldn't like that now, 
would you? Tears of alcohol? 

Nicolas [suddenly starts a fit of coughing, wakes 
up, and calls out querulously]. Annette! Annette! 
Where's my lamp? I'm all in the dark here. 

Annette. I'm bringing it, Nicolas. [She takes the 
lamp from the table left and brings it over to Nicolas. 
Joanny meanwhile rolls up Annette's piece of silk 
and puts it under his arm.] 

Nicolas. Has Monsieur Rondier been? It 
seemed to me I heard his voice. Or was I dreaming? 

Annette. No, he's been. 

Nicolas. And he's satisfied with the work? 

Joanny. More than satisfied. You should have 
heard him. 

Nicolas. Oh, you're there still, are you? 

Joanny. Yes, but I'm going. Don't worry. 

Nicolas. Yes. You better. We've got to work, 
we have to. We can't afford to loaf. [He begins 
to busy himself sorting out bobbins. Annette has 
crossed back to Joanny, who points to the bale of silk 
under his arm, then to Nicolas, and then puts his fin- 
ger to his lips, indicating that she is to say nothing of 
the matter to her husband. Annette, after hesitating, 
consents with a reluctant smile and a nod of the head.] 
[53 1 



Act I MY LADY'S DRESS 

Jo ann y. Good morning — both of you. 

Nicolas [carelessly]. Morning! [He starts the 
wheel going to wind his bobbins.] 

Annette [gently, her eyes on Joanny]. Joanny! 
[She holds out her hand and shakes Joanny's hand 
warmly.] Good morning, Joanny. [She goes off 
quickly through the door and can be seen returning to 
her loom. Joanny hitches up his trousers, takes a swig 
from his bottle, then shoulders the other bale of silk and 
goes off to the left, whistling loudly. 



Curtain 



ACT II 



ACT II 

Scene I: The garden of a small Dutch house of about 
1660. The house, with a door leading into it, and a 
double window with red shutters, occupies two thirds of 
the background, extending of to the right — where there 
is evidently a garden. This garden, on the right side, 
is railed in by a low wooden fence, over which hang 
lilac bushes. The other third of the background (to 
the left) is occupied by a stone wall about seven feet 
high, with a door in it that leads into a street. When 
the door is open, a canal way is seen through it with 
houses on the side opposite. A bench stands under 
' the window by the house, and just under the lilac 
bush to the right, a square rustic table with a chair 
above it, and a stool in front of it. Close by the table 
there is also the traditional lacemaker's pilloio on its 
little wooden stand. The pillow is covered with many 
bobbins. A blue satin box containing various pieces 
of lace stands on the table. 

Moeder Kaatje is sitting in the garden, the 
pillow before her, busily making lace. She is a 
[57 1 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

woman of about sixty, plainly dressed in the costume 
of the period, with a large white apron; a snowy cap 
frames in her honest, round, red face. She works 
away in silence for a few minutes. 

There is a sudden knock — in fact a quick succession 
of knocks on the street door. 

Moeder K. [rising]. Yes, yes, yes! I come! I 
come! What's all this to do? 

[She goes to the door, opening it. A girl of 
seventeen, Antje, whose features recall Anne, 
enters the garden quickly, closing the door be- 
hind her. She is a charming young person — 
dressed in the delightful "undress" costume of 
the period: a rich skirt trimmed with a silk 
border, and a loose satin jacket edged with fur. 
Over her head she has thrown a veil. When she 
takes it off she reveals the daintiest of little 
caps, her ringlets falling over her ears on either 
side. She is evidently in great distress.] 
Moeder K. [surprised]. Mejuffer Antje! 
Antje [flinging herself on Moeder Kaatje's ample 
bosom]. Oh, nurse! Nurse! [She bursts into 
tears.] 

Moeder K. Antje! My little Antje! What's 
[58 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

this? In heaven's name — tell me — my little child, 
my poppet! 

Antje. Oh, nurse! My father — my honored 
father — he desires to marry me to a loathsome man, 
a terrible man, a man I cannot suffer, and will never 
suffer as long as there's breath in my body. 

Moeder K. Come ! Come ! Why's he so loath- 
some? So terrible? What's wrong with him? 

Antje. The whole man's wrong, nurse. He is 
indeed! Quite wrong! Quite wrong from top to 
toe. 

Moeder K. There! There! Calm yourself , my 
pretty ! Sit down. Here, so. Now explain, Antje. 

Antje. Yes, but 

Moeder K. Yes, but — quietly! Quietly! Now. 
Dry your tears. Quietly! Quietly! Now tell me. 
Who is he? Where does he come from? 

Antje. He comes from Amsterdam. And his 
name's Jonkheer Ian van der Bom. His father's an 
old friend of my father's. And they've written and 
arranged it all between them, with never so much as 
a word to me [Moeder Kaatje : Dear! dear!]. And 
Jonkheer Ian arrived in town last night, and paid his 
respects at once to my father. And he supped at the 
house. And he's coming again to-day. And I — 
[59] 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

how can I escape him, the hateful creature, with his 
foolish face and foolish voice? 

Moeder K. And prithee what said he to you that 
was so foolish? 

Antje. Not a word, thank Heaven ! Not a word. 
I never gave him the opportunity. The moment I 
caught a glimpse of him from the top of the stairs and 
heard his empty laugh — that was enough for me. I 
turned forthwith and ran back to my room and un- 
dressed and jumped into bed. And when my hon- 
ored father sent for me, I pleaded a headache and a 
fainting fit. 

Moeder K. Oh, did you, miss! Did you! 

Antje. Yes, and later on, when the maid brought 
me some supper, I questioned her. He's a fool! A 
popinjay. Jonkheer Ian! Nothing else. A fop, 
who's been to Paris and has his mouth full of French 
words and windy sentiments! And his locks are 
curled and his hands sweet with musk. I should 
kill him — kill him in a week — if my father married 
me to him. I know I should, nurse! 

Moeder K. [patting her hands]. Hush! Hush! 
Does Mynheer, your father, know you've come here 
to me? 

Antje. No! Heaven forbid. I dressed as quietly 
[60] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

as a mouse; and waited and waited till I saw 
my chance. And then out I ran, all the length of 
the bay and over the bridge, through the little back 
streets — to you. 

Moeder K. My little Antje! 

Antje. You'll help me, nurse, will you not? 
I've no one to go to but you. No mother but you, 
nurse. And my father listens to you. He knows 
what you say is wise and right. You will, nurse, 

you 

[There is a knock on the street door.] 

Antje. Oh! Who is that? 

Moeder K. [rising and going to the door]. Who 
should it be? Probably the milk. [She opens the 
door. Mynheer Cornelis appears. He is an 
elderly, sturdy, Dutch gentleman, dressed in dark 
brown with a plain linen collar, black hat, and long 
black stick. His costume is very restrained and simple.] 

Antje [at the sight of him]. Father! Not the 
milk, nurse. 

Mynheer [equally surprised]. Antje! What are 
you doing here? 

Antje. I — I came to see nurse, father. 

Mynheer. You sent me down word that your 
headache was no better. 

[611 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

Antje. I know, sir. I — Oh, nurse — speak for 
me. 

Moeder K. She's very unhappy, Mynheer. She 
does not wish to marry the Jonkheer van der Bom. 

Mynheer. Not wish to marry the Jonkheer? 
How's this? How's this? So that's what your 
headache's been? You've had no headache at all? 

Antje. Indeed, honored father, I've had a head- 
ache besides. Truly, I have. 

Mynheer. Don't lie to me, Mejuffer. You've 
had no headache at all. And if you have, you're not 
to have one after this, d'you hear? I'll have no 
nonsense in my house. I know what's best for you. 
There's not a grander name in the whole of Holland 
than van der Bom. Not a one. And when he 
comes here presently 

Antje [terrified]. He's coming here? Here? 

Mynheer. He's to meet me here at nine. He 
intends buying you a gift, a bridal gift. I told him 
you were fond of lace — and that Moeder Kaatje 
was the finest lacemaker of our town. But had I 
known she was harboring a rebellious child 

Antje. No, my father! No! 'Tis no fault of 
hers. I came here not a moment since. Fled here 
in my despair! 

[62] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

Mynheer [flaring up]. Fled here? Fled here? 
What sort of language is this? Have you ever been 
ill-treated by me in all your life? Or talked to 
roughly — eh? Or crossed in any way? Fled here 
indeed ! I'll have you pick your words, Mejuffer, or — 
[waving his stick] — by God, I'll not be answerable 
for what I do. 

Moeder K. [coming between them]. Mynheer! 
Mynheer! Remember! She's your daughter! Your 
dear. wife's only child. Mynheer! 

Mynheer. Only child, or no child at all, I tell 
you she shall marry the man I choose. 

Moeder K. Mynheer! Mynheer! Forgive my 
boldness. One word only, I beg of you. 

Mynheer. Well? What is it? 

Moeder K. Pray consider! After all 'tis Me- 
juffer who has to wed the Jonkheer — not you! How 
know you, sir, that he's the right man? 

Antje. Yes, father. How know you he's the 
right man? 

Moeder K. How know you he is not merely 
after her money? 

Antje. Yes, father! How know you 
that? 

Mynheer. Listen to them! The right man in- 
[63] 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

deed! After her money? Is not his father one of 
my oldest, most honored friends? 

Antje. The father perhaps. But what of the 
son? 

Mynheer. The son's his father's son. That's 
quite enough for me. 

Antje. Enough for you, sir, perhaps. But not 
for me. 

Mynheer. And what more would you know of 
him, Mejuffer Impudence? 

Antje. Everything, father. Everything. 

Mynheer. Everything indeed! And how mean 
you to find out everything, pray? 

Antje. How? [After a pause.] Father! Promise 
to let me do what I shall ask of you — and I'll promise 
to marry your man — if you still wish. 

Mynheer. I buy no cat in a bag. Speak your 
meaning. 

Antje. I mean let me try this Jonkheer. Put 
him to the test. 

Mynheer. Put him to the test? How? 

Antje. He's coming here you say? He intends 
to buy lace? 

Mynheer. Yes. Well? 

Antje. Let me sell him the lace. Let me play 
164] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act I J 

Moeder Kaatje, or better — Kaatje's daughter. He's 
never set eyes on me. He knows me not. I can 
stand here and sell and bargain like the best of 'em. 
[Mynheer: No! No!] Oh, you shall listen to every 
word, if you desire. [Pointing to the house.] In 
there! There shall be no cheating. You shall 
judge for yourself. And so shall I. What say you 
— my honored, my best of fathers? 

Mynheer. No! No! A most unmaidenly pro- 
ceeding. I'll not hear of it. 

Antje [pleading]. Father! 
[A knock on the street door.] 
There he is now! Father! 

Moeder K. [pleading]. Mynheer! You'll never 
have such a chance again! 'Twill prove him for all 
time to come. 

Antje. Father! It means my happiness for life. 

Moeder K. And yours, too, Mynheer. You 
know you love your child. 

Antje [stroking his chin]. Father! Dearest 
father! 

Moeder K. Mynheer! [Another knock.] 

Mynheer. Well! Have it your own way! 
Only 

Antje. Yes, yes. I'll marry him if he proves 
[65] 



Act 1 1 MY LADY'S DRESS 



true. You have my word! Yes! Yes! [Pushing 
her father toward the house.] Quick! Kaatje! Now. 
Take my kerchief and my jacket. [She takes off her 
kerchief from her head and her satin jacket, revealing a 
simple dress beloiv.] Your apron, good Kaatje — 

your apron 

[Kaatje takes off her apron.] 
So! So now I am your daughter, Kaatje, so! Your 
box of laces. Where are they? 

Moeder K. [pointing to the blue satin box on the 
table]. There! The prices are all marked. 

Antje. I'll sell them for you ! And well ! Guel- 
ders' and guelders' worth. You'll see! [Another im- 
patient knock. Tying on the apron, calling out.] Yes ! 
I come! I come! So — am I right — so? 
Moeder K. Yes. Yes. 

Antje. Into the house! [To her father by the 
door.] Father! Kaatje! [Calling out.] I come! 
[Mynheer and Kaatje go off into the house.. 
I come ! [Antje opens the door to the street.] 

[Jonkheer Ian is standing on the sill. His 
features resemble John's. He is a tall thin 
young man of about twenty-two, dressed com- 
pletely in black silk with a pointed hat. His 
clothes are much beribboned, he wears a 
[66] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

broad collar and full, frilled cuffs, edged with 

narrow lace. The "canons" [frills] round 

his knees are huge, and his" petticoat breeches" 

very full. In face his appearance exactly 

corresponds to the portrait of a gentleman by 

Terborch in the National Gallery. His 

manner is extremely foppish and artificial.] 

Jonkheer [in a superior tone, scarcely noticing 

Antje]. Ma foi! Is there no one to wait upon the 

door? My arm is weary with knocking. 

Antje. I'm sorry, Mynheer. I did not 
hear. 

Jonkheer. Is this the house of Moeder Kaatje, 
the lacemaker? 

Antje. Yes, Mynheer. 

Jonkheer. I am Jonkheer Ian van der Bom of 
Amsterdam. I have an appointment here with Myn- 
heer Cornelis. Evidently he has not yet put in an 
appearance. 

Antje. As Mynheer Jonkheer says. 

Jonkheer [annoyed]. Late! And I'm the one 
to have to wait. I — a van der Bom to dance attend- 
ance on a country merchant! The situation is 
droll to say the least ! Most droll ! [Laughs wearily.] 
Ha! Ha! 

[67] 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

Antje. Would the Jonkheer like to look at some 
of the laces meanwhile? 

Jonkheer. Where is the good woman? 

Antje. Moeder Kaatje's not here to-day. She 
was called away. But I can show them to the 
Jonkheer quite as well. 

Jonkheer. I presume you're the daughter, are 
you? 

Antje. As the Jonkheer says. I am the daugh- 
ter. 

Jonkheer. Tres bien! [Yawning.] I may as 
well kill time somehow till the mighty Mynheer 

decides to keep his appointment [He goes 

toward the house.] 

Antje [interrupting him]. Not in there, I pray 
you, but here, so it please the Jonkheer. 'Tis — 'tis 
somewhat warm in the house to-day. Permit me 
to offer you a chair. 

Jonkheer [wearily]. Merci! Merci! I am 
"mort de fatigue" after a horrible night at that 
wretched town inn of yours! Absolument mort de 
fatigue! [He sinks wearily into the chair.] 

[Antje, behind the chair, pulls a face at him, 
then goes over to the table.] 

Antje. What kind of lace is it that the Jonkheer 
[68] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

desires? For his wrist frills? Or his collar — or 
perchance a handkerchief to complete his beautiful 
toilet? 

Jonkheer [flattered, foolishly]. Oh, these clothes 
are nothing! Only a little early morning fancy of 
my own ! I had it made in Paris. 

Antje. Oh, the Jonkheer has been in Paris? 

Jonkheer [with a superior tone]. Pm only just 
returned. Every man of quality goes to Paris these 
days. What would one do for the fashions were it 

not for Paris? Smell that [He holds out his hand 

to Antje.] Could one procure such heavenly odors 
anywhere but in Paris? 

Antje. Wonderful ! 

Jonkheer. Amber! Amber with a soupcpn of 
civet ! 

Antje. A soupgon. 

Jonkheer. And these taffeta ribbons? A hun- 
dred and twenty ells in the petticoat alone. [He 
rises.] You observe? There and there and here. 
And the cut of the cape. Mark it close. [He turns 
round.] Where else could one find such a cut! Is 
it not an inspiration? A poet's vision? Ah ! Paris ! 
Paris! [He sinks back into his chair.] Bon Dieu, 
that I were back in Paris ! 

[69] 



Ad II MY LADY'S DRESS 

Antje. 'Tis too marvellous. 

Jonkheer. Of course there's one sad defect 
about the costume — one very sad defect indeed. 
You've noted it, sans doute. 

Antje. It all seems perfection to me! 

Jonkheer [wearily]. You would not observe it 
— naturally. You lack the French eye. The nose. 
The flaire! Shall I tell you? Shall I whisper it? 
The collar! Look at the collar! 

Antje. The collar? 

Jonkheer. The lace! Painfully, absurdly nar- 
row. Say at least — at least — [holding out hi* fingers] 
— this much. Quite — quite an inch and a quarter. 

Antje. How dreadful! Yes, now I do observe 
it! It ruins everything. 

Jonkheer. Everything! 

Antje. But we might remedy that, I think, 
Mynheer. [She opens the box of laces.] 

Jonkheer. Fi done! Dutch lace — I? Jamais! 
Jamais! My dear mademoiselle — there is no lace 
in Holland. There never was ! There never will be. 
All this on my ruffles is Alencon. Point d'Alencon. 

Antje. And yet the Jonkheer comes to us for lace. 

Jonkheer. Oh, but not for myself . No. Merely 
for a lady. 

[70] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

Antje. Oh, merely for a lady. 

Jonkheer. Yes. You may as well know. I've 
just done Mynheer Cornells the honor to accept 
the hand of his daughter. 

Antje. Have you? 

Jonkheer. Yes. You know her — no doubt? 

Antje. Yes. I know her. 

Jonkheer. Then you might possibly advise me. 
Which one of these — shall we say — these efforts — 
would take her taste? [Looking at a piece of lace as 
an idea strikes him.] Here's not a bad piece — for 
Dutch work. What might be the price of this? 

Antje. This? [Looking at the mark.] This you 
could have for sixty guelders. 

Jonkheer. Sixty? Is that all? I paid two 
hundred louis for these ruffles ! Sixty ! Ridiculous ! 
Have you nothing better? 

Antje. Here's a better piece! Longer and 
wider. I'm sure Mejuffer would fancy this piece 
immensely. 

Jonkheer. How much? 

Antje. One hundred and eighty this. 

[Moeder Kaatje's head appears at the win- 
dow, and a moment later Mynheer 's. They 
listen intently.] 

[71] 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

Jonkheer [showing her the mark]. But 'tis 
marked ninety. 

Antje. A mistake! A slip! Will you have it? 
Tis our very finest work. Nothing would please 
her better than if you took this — for a hundred and 
eighty. I'm confident. 

Jonkheer. A large amount to give. 

Antje. You paid two hundred for those ruffles 
of yours. 

Jonkheer. Aye. But they were for me — for my 
own person. 

Antje. I see. That makes a difference. 

Jonkheer. A great difference. 

Antje. Well, shall we say a hundred and seventy 
— to conclude the bargain? 

Jonkheer. One hundred and fifty. 

Antje. One hundred and seventy — and not a 
guelder less. 

Jonkheer. Very well. I'll not bargain. I never 
do. But on one condition — that you'll answer me 
one little question. 

Antje. Which is? 

Jonkheer. What is she like — in truth, this 
Mejuffer Antje? 

Antje. Oh, that's it? 

[72] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

Jonkheer. Yes. [He takes the lace and pockets 
it] 

Antje [calmly]. A hundred and seventy we said. 

Jonkheer [as if recollecting]. To be sure! I'm 
so distrait. The van der Boms are all distrait! [He 
takes the money out of a silk purse.] There. There's 
one hundred! Now, twenty — forty — sixty! 

[As he counts Antje catches sight of Moeder 
Kaatje at the window and makes signs to her.] 
We said sixty, did we not? 

Antje. Seventy. 

Jonkheer. Seventy? Did we? [With a sigh.] 
Well! I never bargain. There's your money. 
Now tell me. Will she prove obedient? Pliable? 
Ready to learn? 

Antje. To learn what? 

Jonkheer. Everything. For 'tis clear I shall 
have to take her to Paris. To have her taught — 
from the beginning. How to talk and how to walk. 
What kind of clothes to wear. What perfumes. 
How to dress her hair. Pauvre petite! There'll be 
a great deal to correct. A great deal, I fear me. 

Antje. Oh, you fear so, do you? 

Jonkheer. Oh, I know it. They say she's pretty, 
of course. But we all know what that means. 
[73 1 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

Country taste and city taste ! Ha ! Ha ! And yet I 
ask not for a miracle of beauty. Even were she 
merely as pretty as you, ma petite 

Antje. Mynheer thinks me pretty? 

Jonkheer. Gentille! Tres gentille for your 
station. 

Antje. Oh, thank you, Mynheer. 

Jonkheer. Something could be made of you, I'm 
confident. Something most — most passable. [He 
leans across the table trying to stroke Antje 's cheek.] 

Antje [avoiding his hand]. Oh, Mynheer! What 
would Mejuffer Antje say! 

Jonkheer. Mejuffer Antje! Think you I'll 
trouble my head as to what Mejuffer Antje may say? 
'Tisbad enough to have to marry her — Mejuffer Antje! 

Antje. Bad enough? Then pray why do you 
marry her? 

Jonkheer. Oh, thou blessed simplicity! Have 
you never heard of the little word — debts? 

Antje. Debts? 

Jonkheer. Do you suppose that any other rea- 
son would make a gentleman of my position take up 
with a country merchant's daughter? And come 
down to a miserable town like this, and bow and bob 
to an old self-important fool of a father? 
[74] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

Antje [glancing over at the window]. Oh, her father, 
an old self-important fool is he? 

Jonkheer. An ass. A very ass! Strutting 
about and braying and laying down the law to 
everybody! And that merely because he's suc- 
ceeded in making his fortune! Which heaven alone 
knows how and by what means he's done it! 

[Mynheer disappears from the window, shak- 
ing with rage, and appears in the house door; 
slowly, step by step, he comes into the court- 
yard.] 

Antje. Sure he's come by his money honestly. 

Jonkheer. Honestly? Have you ever noted his 
little pig eyes? And his snout of a mouth? Faces 
like that never make their money honestly — take my 
word for it! 

Mynheer [suddenly confronting the Jonkheer]. 
Oh, do they not? Do they not? Well, if they don't, 
at least they can give a beating honestly — you take 
my stick for that. 

Jonkheer [who has sprung up]. W T hat's this? A 
trap? 

Mynheer. Yes, and thank God my daughter set 
it. [He points to Antje.] 

Jonkheer. Your daughter? 
[75 1 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

Mynheer. Out with you! Out with you, you 
dog — or, as I live, I'll break this over your back — 
infamous puppy! 

Jonkheer. Country boors! What a fortunate 
escape! Here, Mejuffer! Take your lace — give me 
back my money. 

Antje. Oh, no! You bought it. 'Tis yours. 
The money goes to my nurse. [She turns to Moeder 
Kaatje who stands in the doorway of the house.] 
Keep the lace. Trim your collar with it. Remedy 
the defect of your costume. [Imitating him.] "The 
sad defect. The lace, painfully, absurdly narrow. 
By quite — quite an inch and a quarter." Ha! Ha! 
Ha! 

Jonkheer [furious, breathless]. Oh, I [As- 
suming his affected manner again.] Barbarians! I 
shall go back to Paris! 

[He turns and goes off solemnly into the street. 
The other three burst out laughing heartily; 
then turn and bow solemnly to the audience.] 

Curtain 

Scene II : A dingy dark room in the East End. At 
the back a wall, covered with a muddy brown paper; 
a few ugly colored pictures on it. The door is to 
[76] 



MYRIAD Y'S DRESS Act II 

the right. Along the wall a row of hooks with some 
clothes and a washstand with tin basin, etc. Along 
the wall, to the left, a kitchen dresser with china. To 
the right (not seen) the hearth. A couple of plain 
deal chairs right and left. In the centre a large table 
with an oil lamp shaded with a green shade. On the 
table countless pieces of colored cloth, bits of wire, etc., 
for making artificial flowers. The lamp is lighted. 
In fact it is the only light which lights the whole 
scene. 

Behind the table, busily at work on her artificial 
floivers, sits Annie. She is a pale, frail girl of 
eighteen with an eager face crowned by an immense 
amount of beautifid red-gold hair. This hangs 
down behind so as to hide her deformity, for she is a 
hunchback. She wears a white rather soiled 
apron over a very plain dark bodice. Nothing else 
can be seen of her, as all through the scene she never 
moves from her chair behind the table. By the 
hearth, Mrs. Moss, a stout, elderly Jewish woman, 
of a motherly type, with a brisk, shrewd manner. 
She is on her knees poking the fire — which cannot be 
seen. But the clatter of the poker on the iron and 
then the glow show her operation to be effective. 
Everybody in the scene talks cockney, of course. 
[77 1 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 



Mrs. Moss. There, dearie! There! The fire's 
all right again! Shall I put the kettle on? 

Annie [who never stops working all through the 
scene except when she takes her tea]. Yas! There's a 
dear! 

Mrs. Moss. Per'aps you'll 'ave yer tea before 
Liza comes 'ome? 

Annie. What d'you take me for? Not wait for 
Liza? 

Mrs. Moss [taking the kettle and putting it on the 
hearth]. But it's so cold in 'ere to-day, dearie. You 
must be froze. 

Annie. No more'n usual. 

Mrs. Moss. Will you get them flowers done in 
time? 

Annie. Well, what time is it now? 

Mrs. Moss [looking at the clock on the dresser]. 
Close on six. 

Annie. They take a deal of doin', these 'ere fancy 
velvet roses. 

Mrs. Moss. But they're wonderful when they 
do get done. Got a rare knack with them fingers o' 
yours. 

Annie. It's a 'abit — that's what it is. Just 'abit! 
'Aven't I been at it more years'n I like to think of? 
[78 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

Mrs. Moss. 'Ow old are you exactly, Annie? 

Annie. What makes you ask? 

Mrs. Moss. I was only just wonderin'. 

Annie [defiantly]. I'm eighteen come Christmas, 
if you must know. And I'm not ashamed of it, 
neither. 

Mrs. Moss. Eighteen! As much as that? 

Annie. Oh, you think 'cause my 'air's down, 
don't you? Well, I can't abear to put it up — that's 
why. 

Mrs. Moss [conciliatory]. 'Course not. You'd 
be 'avin' 'eadaches all day long, wouldn't you? 
You've got such loads and loads of it! And such a 
color, too! My 'usband always says, says Sam: 
"There's a fortune in that girl's 'air." And 'e 
ought ter know — bein' as he is in 'air 'imself and a 
first-class barber. 

Annie. A fortune? Two or three quids per 'aps? 

Mrs. Moss. More like ten, I should say. 

Annie. Ten quid? Garn! 

Mrs. Moss. 'Struth. We could all make a bit 
out of this 'air o' yours if you'd only sell it. I've 
never seen the likes of it and on such a little body, 
too. Strikes me all your strength's gone into your 
'air. [She fingers it.] 

[79] 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

Annie. The nurses in the 'Ome, they used to say 
the same sort o' thing. And me only a bit of kid 
then. It's when they tried to straighten me out and 
get me legs to work. You know, six years ago. 
D'you know what they called me? "Goldilocks." 

Mrs. Moss. Goldilocks. Oh, did they? 

Annie. Yas. And there was one of 'em — Nurse 
Porter she was — she used to read me sometimes when 
I couldn't sleep: a book about fairy tales — one in 
particular about a queen or a princess it was — I 
forget. And they locked 'er up in a tower, like the 
wicked witch did. She 'ad 'air just like mine — only 
longer; 'cause it was in a tale this, you see. And she 
used to sit by the window and let it down. And the 
prince 'e come a-ridin' along one fine day. And 'e 
couldn't get up to 'er. So 'e just climb up 'er 'air. 

Mrs. Moss. Such rubbish I never did 'ear! 
Climb up 'er 'air indeed. I'd like to see anybody a- 
climbin' up my 'air. I'd soon give 'em the chuck. 

Annie. Ain't I tellin' yer it was only a tale? 

Mrs. Moss. Yes, and nice goings-on, too. You 
don't catch any of our royal ladies a-'angin' their 
'eads out of Buckingham Palace with their 'air all in 
a mess. People in tales never 'ave no self-respec'. I 
don't 'old with no tales. 

[80] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

Annie. I dunno. I think it sounds kind o ' pretty 
some 'ow. Any 'ow it done so in the 'Ome, the way 
Nurse Porter used to read it. 

Mrs. Moss [doubtfully]. Per'aps. 

Annie. It did reely. [After a pause, with a sigh.] 
Well, any 'ow — one thing I do know, fairy tales or no 
fairy tales — there'll never be no prince for me. No, 
nor any other bloke for that matter. [Tentatively, 
with a quick glance.] What do you think, Mrs. Moss ? 

Mrs. Moss. You never know, Annie. There 
might. 

Annie [eagerly]. D'you think so, Mrs. Moss? 
Honest? With this — [pointing to her back] — this back 
o' mine? 

Mrs. Moss [in a kindly manner]. Oh, it don't 
show. It don't indeed, dearie. 

Annie. O ' course it don't show much, now I 'ave 
my 'air down. But I can't go on a-keepin' it down 
forever. 

Mrs. Moss. Why not? 

Annie. No. Not when once Liza gets married. 
I'll 'ave to put it up after next week. Everybody in 
the street knows she's younger'n me. I can't go on 
like this after she's married. They'd laugh at me. 

Mrs. Moss. Let 'em laugh. What d'you care? 
[811 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

Annie. I can't 'elp it. I do care. You see they 
come round 'ere most of 'em, once in a while. They 
want to touch me back. It brings 'em luck they 
say. 

[To the right the door is heard to open and slam. 
Liza enters, a typical cockney factory girl of 
sixteen, healthy, raw-boned, with a dirty face, 
towsled hair, and a soiled factory apron and 
old hat.] 
Liza. 'Ello, Annie! 'Ow's life been treatin ' you 
since this mornin'. Awright? 

Annie [brightening]. Oh, I'm awright, Liza. 
Liza [waving her hat at Mrs. Moss]. 'Ello, Mrs. 
Moss! [Doing a step.] "You made me love you." 
Mrs. Moss. You seem in pretty grand spirits, me 
lady, don't you? 

Liza. Never say die, Mrs. Moss. Jack and me's 
off to the Brit first 'ouse to-night. Got a couple o' 
passes from a pal what's got a sister as does a turn 
with performin' guinea pigs. 

Annie. Oh, Liza — you can't go to-night! 
Liza. What's wrong? 

Annie. These 'ere roses o' mine. We promised 
to deliver 'em by eight to-night. 
Liza. Lor' lumme! If I ain't gone and clean 
[82] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

forgot these 'ere blasted roses of yours. And Jack 
a-comin' 'ere for 'is tea any minute now. 

Annie. You've ast 'im to tea? 

Liza. Yus. Before we goes to the show. Met 
'im at the corner. He's just gone 'ome to tidy up 
like. 

Annie. But they've got to 'ave them roses, Liza. 
They're workin' overtime to get the dresses out for 
to-morrow's show. You remember what they told 
you. There'll be no pay if 

Liza [annoyed — taking off her apron savagely] . Yus ! 
Yus! Yus! I remember! The blighters! Why 
cawn't they come and fetch 'em theirselves, eh? 
'Tain't enough for me to 'ave to stand all day over a 
stinkin' stew in a pickle factory! 'Ave to go and 
trapse all night to the West End into the bargain ! A 
bleedin' shame I calls it. 

Mrs. Moss. I tell you what, Liza! My Sam's 
a-goin' West when 'e comes 'ome to-night. 'E's got 
to see a big 'air-dressing chap about a new job. 'E 
can deliver 'em for you, if you like — that is — if you'll 
pay the bus fare o ' course, 

Liza. I'll pay the bus one way. 

Mrs. Moss. You'd 'ave to pay it both ways if 
you went yourself. 

[83] 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

Liza. So would 'e. 

Mrs. Moss. Just as you please. Take it or 
leave it. I only meant to oblige. [She goes to the 
door.] 

Liza. Oh, very well, I'll pay both ways — this 
once. 

Mrs. Moss. Four pence? 

Liza. Four pence. 

Mrs. Moss [to Annie]. Just sing out when you're 
ready, Annie, and I'll come across the landin' and 
fetch the box. [She goes off right. 

Annie. 'Right. 

Liza [clattering about with the tea things]. She'd 
squeeze money out of a dead rat, she would. Four 
pence for his fares ! And three pence a day for lookin' 
after you, while I'm a-sweatin' at the factory! And 
two pence 'ere and five pence there! Gawd! 'Ow 
is it all goin' to end? 

Annie. But I'm a-payin' for it out of my own 
makings ! 

Liza. Yus. But you don't pay me for goin* 
West twice a week and more. What's goin' to 
'appen once I'm married and 'ave to get Jack's tea 
o' nights? Who's goin' to take your bloomin' 
flowers then — eh? [She starts clearing a corner of the 
[84] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

table for tea — pushing Annie's things about rather 
roughly.] Answer me that, will yer? 

Annie. Look art! Don't go messin ' them petals 
abart, Liza! 

Liza. Oh, you and your petals! [She gives the 
things another shove.] 'Selp me Gawd if I'm not fair 
sick of the sight of 'em. 

Annie. Liza! 

Liza. Well, why don't you go live at the 'Ome, if 
you've got to be waited on 'and and foot, and 'ave 
to 'ave a table size of an 'ouse, that cawn't be 
touched for fear of upsettin ' a few frowzy old petals. 

Annie [after a pause]. You don't mean it — about 
the 'Ome, Liza, do you? 

Liza. I do mean it. This cawn't go on after we 
get married. Jack — 'e won't put up with it. Why 
don't you go back to the 'Ome? They offered to 
take you again. More'n once, they did. 

Annie. Yas. And why did I leave it, Liza? 
'Cause mother died and you was alone in the world. 
That's why I left. And now that you're agoin' to 
get married — now you want to kick me out! 

Liza. Kick you art! Who's said anythin' about 
kickin'? You know you was 'appy at the 'Ome. 

Annie. Oh, I was 'appy enough, I know. But it 
[85] 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

ain't the same as bein' with you, Liza! [She cries.] 
It ain't nothink like the same. 

Liza [kindly]. There! There! Don't you begin 
a-cryin ' now, Annie. I don't mean a word o ' what I 
says. There ! There ! 

Annie [whimpering]. Yes — but 

Liza. Oh, for the love o' 'eaven stop your sulks! 
It's all over, d'you 'ear? Wipe your face; and we'll 
say no more abart it. [She slams the teacups and the 
bread plate on the table. At the same moment there is a 
"rat-a-tat-tat" at the door right.] 

Liza. There 'e is now! [Calling out.] Come on 
in! [She fetches the teapot.] 

[Jack enters, the typical jolly East End young 
workman. His appearance is poor but neat, 
as he has "cleaned up" and put on his best 
bright muffler. From under his little cap 
rolls an immense carefully brushed curl.] 
Jack. Whatto girls! Liza! Come kiss me. 
Liza. Oh, garn! Saucy! 

Jack. You won't, won't cher? [He grabs her and 
gives her a good hug and kiss.] 

Liza. Look 'ere, you'll be makin' me spill the tea. 
Jack [pulling her about]. Tea be bio wed, my 
beauty. 

[86] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

Liza. Beauty yourself! 

Jack. You ain't the first girl to call me that. 
[He winks violently at Annie.] What do you say, 
Annie? 

Liza [annoyed]. Oh, chuck it! Chuck it! Sit 
down and take your tea or we'll never get to the 
Brit. I've got to change me bodice, too — you've 
made yourself so grand. 

Jack [drawing up a chair to the table and sitting 
down]. I likes to give folks a treat when I goes 
out. [To Annie.] Well, and Ws our little pet to- 
night? 

Annie [who has quite recovered, putting aside her 
work]. Oh, I'm all right. 

Liza [handing a cup to Annie]. Ain't much of a 
tea. Thought of getting some dabs. And then I 
says to myself: "There ain't much sense in splashin' 
about the 'oof. We ain't got none too much for the 
weddin' as it is." 

Jack. No. It's that strike what done it. If it 
'adn't been for that, we might 'ave 'ad a regular slap- 
up weddin', you and me. [He drinks his tea discon- 
solately.] 

Liza. Never you mind, Jack. I don't give a 
blow. [She sits down.] 

[87] 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

Jack. Oh, yes, you do. And what's wuss I do, 
too, Liza. There ain't a bloke in the street what 
ain't 'ad 'is weddin' right and proper like. And 
they've always give me as much to drink as I could 
'old — and more ! And 'ere now, when it's my turn — 
blimy — what can I do for 'em? Not a blasted 
thing. 

Liza. We'll 'ave three pound between us, Jack, 
come next Saturday. 

Jack. Three pound? And what's three pound! 
At Dick Facer's weddin ' we finished off nine quid o ' 
the wet, and only twenty-two of us. All beer, no 
spirits, mind ye — nothink but beer. Three pound! 
Lord love a duck ! It makes me fair sick to think of 
it, it does. Three pound! 

Liza. You don't think of puttin' it off again, do 
you? 

Jack. Put it off? What's the use? I might go 
savin' up as I did this time. And there'd be another 
one of them 'ere bloody strikes. And then where'd 
we be? No. I don't want no puttin ' off. No more 
do you, Liza, do you? 

Liza. No, I don't. [She rises and punches him 
affectionately in the chest.] You go on with your sup- 
per. I'm going to wash up a bit. [She crosses to the 
[88] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

washstand and starts undoing her bodice behind, her 
back to the audience, revealing a terrible pair of stays 
beneath.] 

Jack. I don't dare show my mug in the street no 
more. 'Struth ! I can't look a single pal o ' mine in 
the eye: a three-pound weddin'. 

Annie [gently]. It's crool, Jack. Downright 
crool! Wish I could 'elp you. Only, you see busi- 
ness ain't been 

Liza [from the washstand]. Annie, where's the 
comb? 

Annie. I broke it. This morning I broke it a- 
combing of my 'air. 

Liza. That makes the second this month! 

Annie. I cawn't 'elp it. My ' air, you see — 's 

Liza. Oh, you and your everlastin' 'air! I'll 
'ave to get you a cast-iron rake next ! [Goes of to the 
right, apparently opening a door, is heard to shout.] 
Mrs. Moss! Mrs. Moss! Got a comb? Yus, a 
comb. 'Old on! I'll come acrost to you. [She re- 
appears, takes her better bodice off a hook and a little 
shiny hat.] Charge me a fiver for that, she will. 
You wait and see. [She goes off to the right. 

[There is a slight pause. Annie evidently is 
embarrassed in Jack's presence. She finishes 
[89] 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

her tea and puts the cup aside; then starts in 
working again \ 
Annie. 'Elp yourself if you want any more. 
Jack. Right ho! 

[He takes out his ha'penny paper and looks over 
the sporting news, quite forgetting Annie's 
existence.] 
Flying Fish? Suppose I put a half a dollar on Fly- 
ing Fish to-morrer? 

Annie. 'Ave you got much luck bettin' on the 
'osses? 
Jack. No. Nor never did. 
Annie. Then why do you bet? 
[Jack reads, not hearing her.] 
Why d'you bet, Jack? 

[Jack grunts an "Eh?" but goes on reading. 
Annie works in silence after a disgusted 
glance at Jack.] 
Jack [looking up]. D'you say any think? 
Annie [pointedly]. No. Nothink. 
Jack. Oh! Thought you did. [He watches her 
work.] Them's very pretty, them roses. 
Annie [pleased]. Like 'em? 
Jack. Yus. You do work quick. 
Annie. Got to. Got to get 'em done. Mr. 
[90] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

Moss is takin' 'em for me, seein' as Liza's off with 
you for the evenin'. 

Jack [taking out his pipe]. Liza takes, 'em most 
times, don't she? 

Annie. Yas. She does. 

[A slight pause while he lights his pipe.] 

Annie. Jack! 

Jack [puffing at his pipe]. Um? 

Annie. When you're married, you won't mind 
Liza takin' 'em — my flowers. 

Jack. Not when it don't interfere. 

Annie. But it might — might 'ave to interfere — 
sometimes. 

Jack. Then she cawn't take 'em. I told 'er so 
straight the other day. 

Annie. Oh, she's bin a-talkin' to you abart it? 

Jack. Yus. When she talked about you goin' 
back to the 'Ome. 

Annie. Oh, ~ she's been talkin' about me going 
back to the 'Ome, 'as she? 

Jack. She thinks you'd be more comfortable like 
at the 'Ome. 

Annie. Comfortable! Comfortable! O' course 

I'd be more comfortable, only [After a pause.] 

Jack — will you — will you tell me somethink? 
[91 1 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

Jack. Well? 

Annie. No. But promise first you'll tell me 
straight — will you? 

Jack. Tell you straight — what? 

Annie. Do you — do you think there's any chance 
for me? 

Jack. Chance? 

Annie. I mean — you know — chance like — like 
you and Liza? 

jACK[amazed]. Oh. You mean — get married? You? 

Annie. Yas. D'you think some feller might 
come along and care for me? Some pal o' yours 
per'aps. They come up sometimes you know to 
touch me for luck. Do you? 

Jack [a smile of ridicule comes to his face. He sees 
Annie's anxious eyes and puts his hand over his 
mouth, coughing awkwardly]. Well — er — er 

Annie. You're a-laughin'! 

Jack. No, no, Annie. 'S 'elp me Bob I ain't. 

Annie. Well? 

[Jack looks at her bewildered, not knowing what 
to say.] 

Annie [realizing what he thinks]. You don't — I 
thought per 'aps me 'air. And me face ain't so bad, 
is it, Jack? 

[92] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

Jack. No. Your face ain't bad at all. 

Annie. It's the rest ? 

Jack. Well, if you must know 

Annie. Yes. I want to know 

Jack. Well ! It is the rest. 

Annie [wearily]. I thought so. 

Jack [embarrassed, kindly]. Well, you see it's like 
this. A man's got to 'ave a wife what can be on the 
'op, don't 'e? There's a deal to do: cookin' and 
washin' and all that. A pretty face and a mop of 
'air, they don't count for much in the long run, you 
see. 

Annie. O' course, I see. There'll never be nobody 
for me; that's what you mean? 

Jack. No. I don't suppose so, Annie. 

Annie [desperately]. Jack! [After a pause.] You 
won't tell Liza about what I've arst you, will 
yer? 

Jack [surprised]. For why? 

Annie. I dunno You won't? There she is, 

now. Promise? 

Jack. If you ain't a queer old-fashion' lot! 

Annie [pleading]. Jack? 

Jack. Awright. Awright. Don't you worry 
yourself. 

[93 1 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

[Liza reenters in her best bodice and hat, dressed 
to go out.] 
Jack [jumping up rather relieved]. We'll be late, 
old stick-in-the-mud. 

Liza. Well — who's a-dawdlin'? Me or you? 
Jack [taking her arm affectionately to give her a 

rough hug]. Oh, you 

Liza. Now then! Stow it! Stow it! Goo'- 
night, Annie. 

Annie. Don't spend all the cash. Leave a bit 
for nex' week. 

Jack. For the won 'erf ul three-pound weddin' — 

eh? Come along! Let's 'op it! [He turns quickly, 

grabs Liza by the chin and hisses her.] Got you that 

time ! [Tie hurries off to the right. 

Liza [immensely pleased]. Garn, yer soppy date! 

[She follows him quickly. 
[Annie sits a moment looking after them, then 
sighs. Then looks thoughtfully at her hair, a 
lock of which has fallen over her shoulders. 
She strokes it, then stops as if coming to a 
sudden decision.] 
Annie [calling out]. Mrs. Moss! Mrs. Moss! 
Mrs. Moss's Voice [in the distance]. Yes, 
dearie ! 

[94] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

Annie [calling out]. Come over 'ere a minute, 
will yer? 

Mrs. Moss 's Voice. Awright, dearie ! I'm corn- 
in'. 

[As a door is heard to open in the distance An- 
nie looks about again with indecision. She 
gets nervous at Mrs. Moss 's approach.] 

Mrs. Moss [entering]. Well, dearie — what is 
it? 

Annie. It's What did you say your hus- 
band could get for my 'air? Ten quid? 

Mrs. Moss. Per'aps more, per'aps less. Why? 

Annie. Enough to give Liza a slap-up weddin'? 

Mrs. Moss. Lord 'a' mercy ! You ain't agoin ' to 
cut it off to give them a weddin ' ! 

Annie. Why not? 'T won't be of much use to 
me once I'm back in the 'Ome. 

Mrs. Moss.. You're going back to the 'Ome? 

Annie. Yas. There's nothink else for the likes 

o' me. Just makin' flowers, that's all. So 

[She hands her the scissors.] 

Mrs. Moss. You mean it? [Taking hold of a 
strand of her hair.] 

Annie. Yas. Go on! Cut 'em orf ! [Murmur- 
ing.] There'll never be no prince for me. 
[95] 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

Mrs. Moss [engrossed in dividing the tresses]. 
What d'you say? 

Annie. Oh, nothink. 

[Mrs. Moss cuts into the hair. Annie closes 
her eyes, wincing at the sound. The un- 
finished flower trembles on its wire stalk in her 
hand.] 

Curtain 

Scene III : The stockade of a fur hunter's hut in the 
far east of Siberia. At the back a stockade about ten 
feet high runs from right to left. It is made of huge 
pine-tree trunks. In the centre of this stockade a 
rough door, opening in, and hinged on the right side. 
To the left, within the stockade , a rude shed with a 
door which opens out. In this the furs are stored. 
On the inside of the door, nailed to it with one or two 
nails, a fine sable skin. A barrel or two and a box 
to the left. Some fishing nets are hanging up to dry. 
Beyond the stockade, a wild landscape of pines and 
larches and in the distance a jagged mountain peak. 
Yermak, a Finnish boy of sixteen, with a rough, 
good-natured face, is standing near the shed. Just 
inside of the shed Louka, a heavy young fellow with a 
red face, thin moustache, and small evil-looking eyes. 
[96] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

He is a half -Russian, half-Finnish peasant. Both 
men are dressed in the Russian fashion: blouses with 
belts, top boots, and round caps with peaks. Louka 
is handing bundles of skins to Yermak, who is trying 
to take more than he can manage and consequently 
drops them all. 

Louka. Take care, you fool! What are you try- 
ing to do? 

Yermak [gathering the skins up again]. Trying to 
carry 'em, of course. 

Louka. Nice way to go about it. What d'you 
think they're worth? A kopek apiece? 

[Ivan's voice is heard in the distance outside of 
the stockade to the left : * ' Yermak I Yermak I "] 
Yermak [calling]. Here! 

Ivan. Hurry up with those skins! There's no 
time to lose. - 
Yermak. I'm coming. Is that the lot? 
Louka. No. Come back for the rest. 

[Yermak goes off through the door in the stock- 
ade and disappears to the left. Louka throws 
out a few more skins, then comes out of the 
shed mumbling : ' ' There ! " He stops, looks off 
to the left, then goes to the stockade door and 
[97] 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

looks off left to see whether any one is look- 
ing. Then comes back and going to the right, 
he raps on a window {which is out of sight) 
and says.] 
Come out of the house a moment. I want to see 
you. Quick. [He goes again to the stockade door to 
reassure himself, then moves down to the door by the 
shed humming.] 

Climb up on the stove, 
Akoulina, my love, 
And let us be warm together. 
[Anna enters from the right. She is a healthy, 
red-faced peasant girl of twenty-three. She 
wears a loose print bodice and a short skirt, 
rough boots, and a bright print handkerchief 
tied tightly under her chin. She is knitting a 
thick stocking.] 
Anna. Well? What is it? 

Louka. Come here! What about this skin? 
[He points to the skin, but evidently this is merely an 
excuse to get Anna to come to him.] Didn't he say 
something about keeping it? 

Anna. I don't know what — [with sarcasm] — " he " 
said. And — [with a look at Louka] — what's more I 
don't care. 

[98] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

Louka [catching her eye, with a laugh]. Oh, you 
don't care? You don't care what anybody says, I 
suppose? Eh? 

Anna [looking him full in the eye]. I didn't say 
that. 

[Louka puts his arm around her with a quick 
gesture, drawing her toward him.] 
Anna [pushes him away, in a whisper]. For God's 
sake ! Louka ! 

Louea. I've looked. It's all right. [Pleading.] 
Just one! 

Anna. No! No! He'll be going in a few min- 
utes. Can't you wait? 
Louka. No, I can't. 
Anna. You must — that's all. 
Louka. Five entire days, Anna! Five entire 
days! You don't know what it's been like for 
me! 

Anna. And for me! What do you think! 
Louka [taking her hand passionately]. Ha! Ha! 
Has it? Has it? 

Anna [smiling at him, as she yields to him]. Ha! 

[Ivan's voice is heard near: " Louka I Louka I " 

Anna and Louka separate quickly — Anna 

going over to the left, Louka busying himself 

[991 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

with the furs, humming: Climb up on the 
stove, etc. Ivan enters by the stockade door. 
He is a man of thirty-five. His face is 
keen and intellectual, but shows traces of 
suffering. His hair, which he wears slightly 
long, is prematurely gray; so is a small 
straggling moustache and a thin beard. His 
manner is enthusiastic, but very nervous. 
He is, in fact, the antithesis of Louka — 
being far more of the spirit than of the flesh. 
His costume is Russian and he wears a round 
fur cap. He is busy cleaning and oiling his 
gun.] 
Ivan. Louka! You haven't put that sable with 
the others? 

Louka [pointing to the door]. No! It's still on 
the door. 

Ivan. Good! [Turning to Anna with a smile.] 
We're not going to sell that, Annoushka, are we? 
Anna. How should I know, little father? 
Ivan. How should you know? Because if I've 
told you once, I've told you a dozen times. That's 
the sable I trapped the day our little Vanitchka was 
born. 

Anna. Oh, that's that sable, is it? 
[100] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act 11 

Ivan. Yes. And when I get to the village I'm 
going to take it to the tailor. And he shall make a 
cap of it. And when the winter comes little Van- 
itchka shall wear it ! Just think of his rosy face peep- 
ing out of the dark fur! Ha! Ha! 

Anna [mumbling] . A sheepskin cap would do quite 
as well. 

[Yermak reenters. Louka gives him the rest 
of the furs.] 

Ivan. What do you say? 

Anna [going and looking at the skin]. Nothing. 
Only this is a very fine skin, Ivan. 

Ivan. One of the finest I ever caught. Do you 
see the pretty little marks on it? Quite unusual. 

Anna. You could get sixty roubles for this skin. 

Ivan. Oh, easily! But never fear. I won't sell 
it. It shall be Vanitchka's. 

Anna. But sixty roubles, Ivan! 

Ivan. What does it matter? Haven't I forty-six 
sables to take to the traders? Think of that! And 
squirrels, how many did we count, Louka? 

Louka. Eight hundred and something. 

Ivan. Over eight hundred. And red foxes? 

Louka. Seventy -three. 

Ivan. D'you hear that, Anna? I swear there 
[101] 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

isn't another trapper in the whole of Siberia, not one, 
has done better this year — you wait till Yermak and 
I land our raft at the village. Won't your father be 
surprised ! 

Yermak [giving a foolish giggle]. Won't he? 

[He goes off with the other furs to the left. 

Ivan. Louka! Just help Yermak with those 
skins. See he packs them away properly in the chest. 

Louka. Yes, I'd better. Or he'll drop half of 
'em in the river. He's such a fool ! [Louka goes off. 

Ivan. I won't be away very long, Anna. Not 
longer than I can help, my love, you may trust me 
for that. 

Anna. How long do you think? 

Ivan. A week; perhaps ten days. 

Anna. No longer? 

Ivan [laughing]. There's a pretty thing for a wife 
to say. And after two short years of married life, too. 

Anna. Closer on three. 

Ivan. Only two since we left the village though. 
I don't count that first year we lived with your father 
and mother and brothers, all under the same roof. 
It's only since we've been up here — [with a long 
breath and sweeping gesture] — here — that life has really 
begun for us. 

[102] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

Anna [dryly]. I liked the village. There were 
people in the village 

Ivan. People! Thank God there are no people 
here. That's the wonderful part about it : no people ! 

[Anna shrugs her shoulders.] 
You'd say so, too, Anna, if you'd been locked up for 
fourteen endless years — the same faces, the same 
talk, the same despair, morning, noon, and night. 

Anna. I dare say. I've never been in prison. 

Ivan. No, heaven be praised, you haven't. You 
can't imagine what it's like — the freedom here, the 
unbounded freedom of it all! 

Anna. Of course it's good to be free. Any fool 
knows that. 

Ivan. Oh, it isn't only just being free. You can't 
understand. It's when I go into the woods to trap 
and hunt. That's when I feel it most. Hundreds 
and hundreds of miles between me and all that 
horror. Nothing but rocks and pines and mountains 
— only now and then the hooting of a cuckoo — to 
make the silence all the more silent. I can't help it 
— I — often I have to cry, Anna — I feel so — so at peace 
at last — so wonderfully happy. 

Anna. No. I confess I can't understand: cry- 
ing because you're happy? I never! 
[103] 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

Ivan [continuing]. And then the strangest thing 
of all, Anna. You know all those old ideas seem so 
far away now. 

Anna. What old ideas? 

Ivan. Those ideas for which I was ready to give 
up everything. And did give up everything — when 

I was a student Helping the masses. Fighting 

for the rights of the people. Setting Russia free! 
Here, in the face of these — these mountains here — 
all that seems almost — futile. 

Anna. Futile? What's futile? 

Ivan. Useless. Childish. 

Anna. Oh! 

Ivan. Of course they're bound to win. In the 
long run, they're bound to. But why try to knock 
over the existing order of things? The masses must 
help themselves. We Intellectuals, we can't do any- 
thing for them — not really. 

Anna. Well, that's clear enough, isn't it? Every 
time you try to do something the police comes and 
locks you up. And you're sent into exile the way 
you were. It doesn't take fourteen years in a Si- 
berian prison to find that out. 

Ivan. Yes, but to think that I — I with all my 
theories, my enthusiasm, should have come to this. 
[ 104] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

Who would have thought it ! You know I sometimes 
wonder. Do you think it's weakness? That prison 
has broken me? Have I suffered too much? Or am 
I — am I merely too happy, Annoushka? [He takes 
her tenderly by the arm.] What is it? 

Anna. Take care ! You'll make me drop a stitch. 

Ivan. A stitch! [Chaffingly.] That's more im- 
portant, of course, than solving problems in psychol- 
ogy. 

Anna. Well, you can't do without stockings, can 
you? 

Ivan. You're right. It is more important. 
Stockings! Food! Children! Life Life it- 
self. That's the important thing to you ! And the im- 
portant thing to me now. The rest is [He snaps 

his fingers, then sets down his gun.] D'you know, 
Anna — you — you're part and parcel of it here. Na- 
ture — absolute, unspoilt nature — that's what you 
are! 

Anna. Oh, I'm nature, am I? What next? 

Ivan. Ha! Ha! I believe that's why I fell in 
love with you the moment I saw you. You're so 
splendidly wholesome, so entirely of the earth. 

Anna. I don't know what you're talking about 
with your nature and earth. 
[105] 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

Ivan. Thank Heaven you don't! And don't you 
ever try to know. You're mine and the mother of 
my child — that's quite enough. [He tries to embrace 
her.] More than enough! 

Anna. Oh, go away with you! [She pushes him 
away.] Sometimes I think you must be mad ! Such 
things you say! 

Ivan [laughs and tries to embrace her again]. Ha! 
Ha! You're wonderful! 

Anna. No! Go away! Let me be, Ivan Ivano- 
vitch. 

Louka reenters by the stockade door. 

Louka [standing in the doorway]. Everything is 
ready on the raft. 

Anna [to Ivan]. Then you better be leaving, or 
you won't get down to the next post before it's dark, 
and you'll have to put it off till to-morrow. 

Ivan [to Louka]. Sounds as if she wanted to get 
rid of me, doesn't it? 

Louka [confused]. I don't know. 

Anna [to Ivan]. Don't be a fool! You know if 
you don't get to the village by Saturday you'll miss 
the best traders. And then what'll be the good of 
all your skins? 

[106 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

Ivan. There! I was only teasing you. 

Anna. I don't like to be teased. 

Ivan. I'll run and kiss the boy good-bye, and get 
my papers. 

[He goes off to the right with a smile at Anna. 

Anna [calling after him]. Don't wake him up now. 
[Mumbling.] Only just got him off to sleep — the 
brat! 

Louka. Funny his saying that about getting rid 
of him, wasn't it? 

Anna. Oh, he says a lot of things. He makes me 
sick with his talk. Called me all sorts of names just 
now. Nature! And that I was of the dirt, he said. 
[She goes and stands by Louka on the outer side of the 
open door, so screening herself from the house.] 

Louka. Called you dirt, did he, the dirty swine? 

Anna. Yes. And the mother of his child — which 
I knew without being told, worse luck! Wish to 
God I wasn't! 

Louka [smiling at her]. Do you? 

Anna. Yes — of course. Wish to God I'd never 
set eyes on him. And that my parents hadn't made 
me take him — the Intellectual! To have to bear 
children to a man like him, that talks and talks and 
cries when he's happy! Cries! Did you ever hear 
[107 1 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

the like! And not even drunk. For he's never 
drunk! Never! He won't even let me get drunk 
on Sundays, the beast! 

Louka [taking her hands]. Don't you worry! 
He'll be going now. And we'll get nice and drunk 
together! This afternoon if you like! The entire 
week. 

Anna. Yes! And at the end of the week? What 
then? He'll be back again then; remember last 
winter? And we hadn't begun then — you and I. 
It wasn't till after the child was born, remember. 
What are we going to do? 

[Ivan reenters quietly from the house, unob- 
served by Anna and Louka, as the door 
screens Ivan from them. He is busy putting 
some payers in a pocketbook when he hears 
what Anna is saying to Louka. His first 
movement is toward his gun. Then he steps 
behind the door quietly and listens.} 
Louka. We'll manage it somehow even during 
the winter. You wait and see. 

Anna. Manage it? How? He can't go on being 
blind forever? He isn't such an absolute fool. 
Louka. We'll talk it over while he's away. 
Anna. Yes. You better go down to the raft now 
[108] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

and wait for him there. I shouldn't like to have him 
see us here together like this. 
Louka. All right. 

[He runs his hand over her face quickly and goes. 
[Anna turns from the door; as she does so 
Ivan, who has stood behind it, closes and bolts 
it. Anna faces Ivan with a little cry. She 
makes an involuntary movement toward the 
door, trying to push Ivan out of the way. As 
she does so she starts to call: "Louka!"] 
Ivan [quickly clapping his hands over her mouth]. 
Scream — and I'll shoot you, by God. Yes, by God, 
I will. This is between us, d'you hear? Between 
us ! [He releases her mouth. Anna gives an inarticu- 
late grunt.] How long has this been going on? A 
week? A month? Two? Tell me? [Taking her 
roughly by the arm and shaking her.] I want to know, 
d'you hear? I want to know — what's the reason for 
it? What have I done to you that you should do this 
to me? Answer me. 

Anna. I don't know. I couldn't help it. 
Ivan. Couldn't help it? 

Anna. No. I couldn't. I couldn't. I never 
liked you from the first, with your talking about 
things I couldn't understand. And your grand 
[109] 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

manners and grand ways. They frightened me, and 
made me feel queer. 

Ivan. Grand manners! I've got no grand man- 
ners. 

Anna. Well, anyhow, they're not like our manners. 
Not like, like 

Ivan. Like Louka's you mean. 

Anna. No, they're not. With Louka I know 
exactly where I stand. With you I never do. 

Ivan. And yet you married me, Anna. 

Anna. I married you because they told me to. 
I didn't want you. But they said, "You must. He's 
an Intellectual, a Political. He's had his pardon 
signed by the Tsar himself." And they talked to me, 
all of them, my father, my mother, every one, till I 
said "yes" to you. That's how I married you. 

Ivan. And now you love this — this creature. 

Anna [furiously]. He's not a creature. Just 
because you pay him to work, that makes him no 
worse than you. 

Ivan. Oh, it's not that. It's because he's 
stolen 

Anna [fiercely]. I won't listen to a word against 
him, d'you hear? I love him. 

Ivan [after a pause, darkly]. Yes. I see you do. 
[110 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

Anna. What are you going to do to him? 

Ivan. What can I do to him? And what can I 
do to you, for that matter? There's nothing to be 
done. It's too late. 

Anna. You're not going to shoot him? 

Ivan. Shoot him? 

Anna. And you're not going to beat me? 

Ivan. What's the good? 

Anna [in utter amazement]. And you call yourself 
a man? 

Ivan [realizing the hopelessness of her point of view]. 
Oh, Anna! Anna! [After a pause.] Listen to me, 
Anna. You and I we're hundreds of miles apart! 
Generations! Centuries. That's the whole trouble 
with us two. Merely that. That's all. 

Anna. I don't love you — that's the whole 
trouble. 

Ivan. Yes. Because I don't beat you and blow 
out Louka's brains, you don't love me. That's the 
kind of man I ought to have been, the kind of man 
you want. I see that now. 

Anna. Oh, you see that at last, do you? 

Ivan. Yes. Very clearly, suddenly. I see that. 
To think I could ever have imagined myself the right 
mate for you. How ridiculous it seems now. 

[mi 



Act 11 MY LADY'S DRESS 

Anna. I could have told you, the very first night 
of our marriage. The way you kissed me. Didn't 
you feel how I hated it? 

Ivan. I never noticed, Anna. You see I loved 
you. 

[Anna makes a gesture of denial.] 
Oh, yes, Anna. And I do yet, Anna. 

Anna. What? Now? After you've found out? 
You disgust me. 

Ivan [he looks at her long]. And a moment ago I 
thought myself happy. So happy that I even denied 
my past! All those years that I had given to the 

cause. All my youth My ideals! It serves 

me right 

Anna. Well! What's going to happen? 

Ivan. Exactly. What is going to happen? 

Anna. We can't go on like this. 

Ivan. No. We can't. And yet we're bound to 
each other, aren't we? That's the worst of it — 
bound together for life. 

Anna. You mean because, as the priest said at 
the altar, we're man and wife "for the rest of our 
days?" 

Ivan. Oh, the marriage! The marriage! I'm 
not thinking of that. I'm thinking of the child in 
f 112 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

there; your child and mine. It's that that binds 
us and holds us together. If it weren't for that, I'd 
say let's end it here and now. And I'd turn my 
back, and you'd never see me again. 

Anna. You mean it's on account of the boy — 
because he happens to be your child, that you won't? 

Ivan. Yes. 

Anna [after a pause]. Well, he isn't your child. 

Ivan. Anna ! 

Anna [meeting his eye calmly]. No! 

Ivan [breathlessly]. You swear it? 

Anna. I swear it. I'll swear it on the child's 
head, if you like. Before the Ikon. 

Ivan [looking down, his breast heaving]. Not even 

that! So from the very start almost And I 

thought that with you — here — I was living my life 
at last ! Ha ! Ha ! Ah ! [Wearily putting his hands 
before his eyes.] God! Dear God! [He leans against 
the door of the shed resting his forehead against the 
patch of sable. There is a knock on the stockade 
door.] 

Louka's Voice [outside]. Ivan Ivanovitch! You 
must go now, if you're going at all. 

Ivan [looking up, realizing the significance of the 
words]. Do you hear that? 
[113] 



Act II MY LADY'S DRESS 

[Anna has got into a protective attitude at the 
sound of Louka's voice.] 
Don't fear! You know I'm not — [ivith sarcasm] — 
"a man." [He goes and opens the door, 

Louka enters. 

Ivan. Come in. [A slight pause.] Yes, I've 
found out. 

[Louka looks questioningly at Anna.] 
Anna [nodding]. Yes. 

[Louka is also at once on the defensive, his 

hand going to his knife.] 

Ivan [with a weary gesture]. No! No! No use! 

I'm going away. You'll never see me again either of 

you. Take everything that's here. It's yours! 

House — land — everything! Everything — [his eyes 

fall on the little skin on the door] — except [He pulls 

off the ski?i and throws it to Yermak in the door.] 
Here! Take that! Put it with the other skins — 
for sale! And make loose the raft! 

[Yermak catches the skin and disappears.] 
[To Anna.] 

It won't be long before you can marry, if you like. 

For I'm going back to the life I've always belonged 

to. Back to Russia! To help once more in the 

[114] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act II 

fight for freedom! They make quick work of 
us when they catch us a second time! So, you 

see 

[He turns and goes out by the door. Anna and 
Louka stand silently staring before them.] 



Curtain 



[115] 



ACT III 



ACT III 

Scene I : The showroom at Jacquelin's, the dress- 
maker. At the bach, two steps up, an arch with a 
black velvet curtain drawn across it. Through this 
curtain come the mannequins. To the right a large 
double door leading to the entrance hall. Above it a 
table with samples of delicate underwear and a hat or 
two on stands. To the left two long windows, be- 
tween them a "chiffonier, " and by the upper window 
a low desk with ledgers, etc. A telephone stands 
above it on a Chippendale "pillar stand." A con- 
siderable number of small gilt chairs are placed 
about the room. The room is lighted by electric 
brackets. 

Anne, of the opening scene of the play, is sitting to 
the left. She is dressed in a fashionable afternoon 
dress and hat. Next to her sits Sir Charles, a 
stout man of fifty-five, with a rosy face verging on 
apoplexy. He has the manners and appearance of a 
retired colonel, blunt and obvious, with a port-wine 
voice. Almost in the centre of the stage, with her back 
[119] 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

to the audience, sits a stout old woman, Lady Ap- 
pleby, very much bepainted and arranged, and a thin 
languid youth, the Hon. Peter Withers. Miss 
Sylvia, a saleswoman, about thirty, rather worn and 
tired, smartly gowned, stands near Anne. Miss 
Madeleine, another saleswoman, stands behind 
Lady Appleby's chair. Two ladies and a sales- 
woman are grouped nearer the arch to the left. The 
mannequins are parading. 

At the rise of curtain, a very tall striking girl, 
Messaline, comes out through the curtains and 
walks about the room. She is wearing an evening 
dress with an elaborate cloak and headdress. 

Lady Appleby [leaning over to Hon. Peter]. 
Peter — what do you think of that? 

Peter [drawling, languidly]. Of course, I think 
it's quite too terribly divine. 

Lady Appleby. Yes, Peter. But do you think 
for me ? 

Peter. Why not, my dear? 

Lady Appleby. But what would Appleby say? 

Peter. Your husband? I always forget you're 
married. 

Lady Appleby. So do I, sometimes ! 
f 120 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

Peter. Then why not this time? [To the sales- 
woman.] What's the name of that dress? 

Madeleine. That, sir? That's called "Danger 
Ahead." 

Peter [to Lady Appleby]. Oh, you must have 
"Danger Ahead." I'm just dying for you to have 
" Danger Ahead." Say you will, for my sake? Will 

you? 

Lady Appleby [making eyes at him]. I'll think it 
over — just a little longer. 

Peter. Of course I think you're quite too de- 
liriously cruel. [He rises and goes over to the table 
where the underwear is and plays about with it. An- 
other mannequin appears. This time Trottinette, 
a "petite" Frenchy girl in a glittering pink and red 
evening frock.] 

Sir Charles [to Anne]. I say, how many more of 
these young women have they got in stock? 

Anne. Are you getting bored, Sir Charles? 

Sir Charles. Bored with young women, dear 
lady? I? 

Anne. I thought they might possibly amuse 
you. 

Sir Charles. Of course they amuse me. Never 
saw such a parade, anywhere. And I've seen a few 
[1211 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

parades — everywhere. Now what might this one be 
called? [Turning to the saleswoman.] 

Sylvia. This dress, Sir Charles? 

Sm Charles. No, the girl. 

Sylvia. We call her Trottinette. 

Sir Charles. Trottinette. Not bad! Not bad! 
Sounds rather like a two-year-old, don't it? 

Sylvia. And the dress "Red Mullet." 

Sir Charles. "Red Mullet!" Never heard 
anything so damn silly in all my life. "Red Mullet," 
indeed. 

Sylvia [in a surprised tone]. We're calling a lot 
of gowns after dishes this season, Sir Charles. There's 
Vol-au-Vent. And Ris-de-veau! And Petits Pois. 
And Souffle. 

Sir Charles. I suppose you'll be having tripe 
and onions next. 

Anne [laughing to please Sir Charles] . Ha ! Ha ! 
Really, Sir Charles! You mustn't! It's a most 
serious business, the naming and launching of a new 
dress. Quite as serious as the naming and launching 
of a battleship, I assure you. 

Sir Charles. No doubt! No doubt! [Eying 
her.] Quite as fatal an engine of destruction at any 
rate. 

[122] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

Anne. Really, Sir Charles! Ha! Ha! I won- 
der what you'll say to "my destroyer" for your 
dinner to-night? 

Sir Charles. A new one? 

Anne. The very latest. Entirely in your honor. 
Would you like to see it now? Do you think we 
might, Miss Sylvia? Or has the dress gone home? 

Sylvia. I'll just find out. [She goes off by the 
little door in the archway down right.] 

Lady Appleby [rising, in a whining tone]. Peter! 
Aren't you coming back to me? I think it's horrible 
the way you neglect me for those nighties. [She goes 
over to the table and joins Peter. Madeleine 
follows her. A beautiful mannequin, Psyche, has ap- 
peared, dressed in a perfect, classic gown. She comes 
and poses' in front of Sir Charles and Anne.] 

Sir Charles. And what might you be called, 
miss? 

Psyche [in a terrible cockney]. Psoichee. 

Sir Charles. Psoichee? Oh, Psyche. Quite so. 

Anne. And the dress? 

Psyche. Paygan Maiyde. 

Sir Charles. What? 

Psyche [unmoved]. Paygan Maiyde. 

Anne [translating]. Pagan Maid. 
f 123 1 



Act HI MY LADY'S DRESS 

Sir Charles. Oh, I see. Yes — yes. 

[The girl has gone on and is stopped and her 
dress examined by Lady Appleby.] 
Anne. Some of these charming creatures might 
reverse the usual order of things, and learn to talk 
before they learn to walk, don't you think? 

Sir Charles [puzzled for a moment]. Usual or- 
der? Talk before they walk? Ah, yes. Ha! Ha! 
Very good! Very good! 

Anne [looking across through the glass doors] . Look, 
Sir Charles! 

Sir Charles. Where? 

Anne. There ! Through the glass doors ! In the 
hall. I told you Mrs. Collisson would follow us. I 
was convinced of it when she spoke to us at the Club. 
[Mrs. Collisson enters from the right. She is 
a very thin woman of thirty, with a face that 
she paints a livid white. Her hair and eyes 
are dark. Her whole manner and voice are 
cultivated to arouse intense compassion and 
sympathy. A sweet, sad smile hovers care- 
fully on her lips. Anne and Mrs. Collis- 
son detest each other, hence their manner to 
each other is more than polite.] 
Mrs. Collisson [sweetly]. We meet again! 
[ 124 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

Anne [sweetly]. Yes. What a coincidence, dear 
Norah. 

Mrs. Collisson [very sweetly, but firmly]. Yes, 
isn't it, dear Anne ! [To Sir Charles.] You know, 
Sir Charles, I wouldn't do this for anybody else in 
the whole world. 

Sir Charles. Do what, dear lady? 

Mrs. Collisson. With my wretched constitution ! 
Risk my life like this by coming to a fitting. If it 
weren't your dinner to-night 

Sir Charles. Oh, are you getting a frock here, 
too, for to-night? I'm most flattered. 

Mrs. Collisson [pretending surprise, turning 
round to Anne]. Are you, dear Anne? 

Anne. Yes, dear Norah! Didn't you know? 

Mrs. Collisson. How should I? You never 
tell me a thing, you funny, secretive little mouse. I 
only hope it isn't the same dress. 

Anne [horrified]. What? 

Mjis. Collisson [to Madeleine, calmly]. Are 
you ready for me? 

Madeleine. Quite, Madam. 

Mrs. Collisson [to Sir Charles, with a look]. 
Till to-night, then — if I survive. [She goes off by the 
small door, followed by Madeleine.] 
[125 1 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

[Another mannequin enters, Rosamund, tall 

and mediaeval in type, with a trailing "Gothic" 

gown, and a strange cap of gold. She goes 

first to Lady Appleby's corner, the latter 

examining her dress very closely.] 

Anne [looking after Mrs. Collisson]. Oh! The 

cat ! She's ordered the same dress, of course ! That's 

what she's done. 

[Sylvia reenters by the door right, followed by a 
Utter, a woman of about thirty. The latter 
carries the dress covered with a piece of mus- 
lin.] 
Anne [very agitated, turning to her]. Miss Sylvia! 
Mrs. Collisson's not having my dress? Mr. Jacque- 
lin swore he hadn't made it for another soul, that 
I should be the very first. 

Sylvia. No, no, of course not, Madam. 
Anne. You're positive? 

Sylvia. Quite. I only wish he were here himself 
to reassure you. 

Anne. Yes. It's too provoking he should be 
away. I telephoned this morning I was bringing 
Sir Charles. 

Sylvia. Mr. Jacquelin'll be very sorry. But as 
I was telling you, Her Royal Highness commanded 
[126] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

him to come. You see it's a question which one of 
three firms is to do the Princess's trousseau. So he 
had to go, hadn't he? [She turns and indicates to the 
fitter where to place the box with the dress.] 

Anne. I suppose so. [To Sir Charles, aside.] 
I wanted you to see him. He's quite impossible, of 
course. His real name's Jacobs, I believe. Started 
from nothing. But he's as clever as they make 'em. 
Bubbling over with ideas. 

Sylvia [looking through the glass doors]. Oh, here's 
Mr. Jacquelin now. 

[Mr. Jacquelin enters by the door right. At a 
glance one can see that he is of the half -English, 
half-Jewish type — but inclined more toward 
the Jewish in feature and coloring. He is 
most carefully overdressed. A very "waisty" 
morning coat, white spats, a gardenia, an 
elaborate tie, and a tightly curled moustache. 
His manner is impudent, cringing, clever, 
caddish, and brilliant. His voice is very soft 
when talking to the customers, but hard and 
bullying when talking to the girls. As he 
enters he takes of his top hat and spotless 
white gloves. These with his stick he hands 
vaguely to the Buttons and Sylvia, who take 
[127 1 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

them without any acknoivledgment on his part. 
The moment he comes into the room all the 
saleswomen and mannequins assume a much 
more eager, interested manner.] 
Jacquelin [coming to Anne] . So sorry ! So dread- 
fully sorry, Madam. I tried to get back sooner — 
simply impossible ! Her Royal Highness [Hand- 
ing his second glove, Sylvia lets it drop. Jacquelin 
turning round gruffly to her.] Can't you look? 
[Turning again to Anne in his best manner as before.] 
Her Royal Highness wouldn't let me go! Such a 
bore! 

Anne. I've brought Sir Charles. I told you I 
would some day. 

[Sir Charles half bows.] 
Jacquelin [bobbing]. Awfully good of you, Sir 
Charles, to come and have a look at Jacquelin's. 
[He pronounces it in the French way.] I'm afraid 
you're not seeing the place under the best of condi- 
tions. 

Sir Charles. Not at all. Not at all. Think 
'em charming, all of 'em — these pretty little hussies 
of yours : Red Mullett and Sausage, and the rest. 

Jacquelin. Oh, they're nothing — the ones you've 
seen. Remnants! I carried off the best of 'em to 
[ 128 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

Her Royal Highness. Quite took the exalted lady's 
fancy, they did. Would you believe it? She'd 
never set eyes on mannequins before. 

Sir Charles. No. 

Jacquelin. Ton my word. The two other 
firms had done the same old thing, of course — silly 
blighters! — [pulling himself up] — if I may use a vul- 
gar term. Propped up their bedraggled gowns on 
chairs and stuffed 'em with tissue paper — like so 
many hideous corpses. 

Anne. So naturally you got the order? 

Jacquelin. Well, er [Coughing.] I always 

find Royalty singularly — er — deliberate, don't you, 
Sir Charles? You see my creations are rather — shall 
we say advanced? What I need is just the right 
word from some one to be whispered in Her High- 
ness 's ear, to make her 

Lady Appleby [who has come up to Sir Charles]. 
One moment ! I simply must shake hands with you, 
Sir Charles, before going. You don't remember me, 
horrid man. 

Sir Charles [not knowing her at all]. Of course! 
Of course I do. 

Lady Appleby [coquettishly]. No ! No, you don't 
— Lady Appleby. 

[129 1 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

Sir Charles. Lady Appleby! Of course. 
[ They shake hands and talk a few words.] 

Anne [calling over Jacquelin]. Mr. Jacquelin. A 
little word of advice. 

Jacquelin. Yes, Madam? 

Anne. Be nice to Sir Charles — particularly nice. 
He happens to have a great deal of influence with 
Her Royal Highness. You remember he used to be 
attached to her household. 

Jacquelin. By Jove! So he was. I say, what 
luck! Oh, thanks! A thousand thanks for tipping 
me the wink. [After a quick glance at Sir Charles.] 
He rather er — er — fancies my collection of beauties 
— [correcting himself] — young ladies, don't he? 

Anne. Why? What do you mean? 

Jacquelin. Oh — nothing, nothing. Merely — I 
think I can do better for him than what he's seen. 
That's all. 

Anne [puzzled]. Do better? 

[Lady Appleby and the Hon. Peter have gone 
off by the big door left. Sir Charles returns 
to the others.] 

Jacquelin. Miss Sylvia. 

Sylvia. Yes, Mr. Jacquelin? 

Jacquelin. Just see if those young ladies are 
[130 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

back from Her Royal Highness's. Let them all go 
for to-night. [With a smile at Sir Charles.] I 
don't believe in keeping my girls overtime, poor 
dears ! Only ask Anita if she'll oblige. Let her put 
on — let me see. [Turning to Anne.] She shall show 

your model, Madam. Tell her to put on 

What did I name it now? Ah, yes! To put on 
"Take me." [With a very oily voice.] If it's not too 
much trouble. "Take me." 

Sylvia. Very good, sir. 

[She goes off through the curtain at the back. 

Jacquelin. I want you to see her, Sir Charles, if 
you will. Quite my latest discovery. Only been 
with us a week. Funny part, she's extraordinary 
like you, Madam. Of course, not a lady. That goes 
without saying. And her hair's a touch darker: 
cendre, old amber, so to speak. But otherwise the 
resemblance is weird — quite weird. In fact 

Buttons enters right. 

Buttons. You're wanted on the telephone, 
sir. 

Jacquelin. Say I'm out! D'you hear? Out! 

Buttons. It's the Duchess of Crowborough, sir. 
She's at the phone 'erself . 

[131] 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

Jacquelin. Why didn't you say so at once. Am 
I through? 

Buttons. Yes, sir. 

Jacquelin [to Anne and Sir Charles]. You'll 
excuse me. The Duchess ! [He goes to the telephone 
and takes down the receiver.] "Yes, your Grace? 
Yes? Your dress to-morrow? Without fail, your 
Grace. Without fail, I say. You may rely on me. 
Yes. Good-day, your Grace." [He hangs up the 
receiver and comes back to the others.] Absurd, pre- 
tentious creature! Orders a dress one day and ex- 
pects it the next! What does she think I am? A 
reach-me-down? She can wait! 

Anne: You're not going to have it ready for her? 

Jacquelin. There's such a thing as preserving 
one's dignity, ain't there? 

Anne. And what about my dress? Will your 
dignity permit that to be ready? 

Jacquelin. Your dress, Madam? 

Anne [pointing to the box]. My dress for to-night. 

The Fitter. Madam wished to see it. It's 
quite ready. 

Jacquelin [to the fitter, gruffly]. Well, well! 
What are you waiting for? Show it! Show it! 
[Impatiently.] You're all thumbs to-day. 
f 132 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

[The fitter takes the dress out of the box, dis- 
playing it before Anne. It is, of course, 
the same dress as the one of the first scene of 
the play.] 
Eh? What do you say to that? A dream. An ab- 
solute dream, isn't it? D'you catch the style, Sir 
Charles? Eleventh century! Leaning, as it were, 
toward the Merovingian! 

Sir Charles [quite flustered]. The Merovingian! 
Never heard of her. 

Jacquelin. Oh, yes, yes, yes. Of course you 
have, Sir Charles. Charlemagne and all that crew, 
you know. Strong ecclesiastic influence. Ultra- 
modern with a slashed skirt ! The very latest scream . 
Feel that silk, Madam. It's unique, quite unique, 
believe me! Hand woven. They tried to palm off 
another piece on me : same color, same design. I had 
to send it back to Lyons. Wrong — quite wrong! 
It positively set one's teeth on edge to touch it. 

Sylvia reenters through the curtains. 

Sylvia. Mr. Jacquelin! 
Jacquelin [to Sylvia]. Well? 
Sylvia. Anita's just come back. She'll get 
ready at once. 

[133] 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

Jacquelin. Right ho. 

Anne. And the lace ! Lovely, isn't it, Sir Charles ? 

Sir Charles [trying to be interested]. Nottingham, 
I suppose. 

Jacquelin [with a shudder]. Oh, dear, no, Sir 
Charles! Dear, no! Quite three hundred years old. 
Venetian ! Venetian ! 

Sylvia [timidly]. Excuse me, Mr. Jacquelin, I 
believe it's Dutch. 

Jacquelin. Dutch indeed! 

Sylvia. You see I'm partly Dutch. My grand- 
mother had lace very much like that. 

Jacquelin [brutally]. Grandmother yourself! 
It's Venetian, I tell you. Pure Venetian. You must 
be off your chump, Miss Sylvia. 

Anne [coining to the rescue]. What a beautiful 
rose ! Now where do you manage to get flowers like 
this, Mr. Jacquelin? 

Jacquelin. Paris, Madam. Only Paris can turn 
out blooms as "exquis" as that. 

Anne. And the fur? Funny little markings on 
the paws, aren't they? 

Jacquelin. Finest Siberian sable! Wonderfully 
— wonderfully — [stroking it] — "tootsie" — isn't it? 

Sir Charles. Strikes me you have to rummage 
1134 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

all over the world to put a dress together now- 
adays. Means a lot of work for a lot of people, don't 
it? 

Jacquelin. Oh, the work is nothing, Sir Charles 
— nothing! It's the putting together that counts. 
The rest's easy enough. No effort at all, in fact. 
You see — it all lies with the artist, not with the 
materials. The old truth holds good. 

Madeleine appears at the little door left. 

Madeleine. Mr. Jacquelin. 

Jacquelin [annoyed at the interruption]. Yes. 
What is it? What is it? 

Madeleine. Mrs. Collisson would like you to 
come upstairs for a moment. 

Jacquelin [bored]. Mrs. Collisson? She's here? 
Oh, Lord! 

Madeleine. She wants some alterations. 

Jacquelin. What, again? Tell her it's quite im- 
possible ! Say I'm engaged. Get out of it somehow. 

Madeleine. Very good, sir. 

[She goes off by the little door right. 

Jacquelin. I never say anything against my 
patronesses! Never! But really Mrs. Collisson's 
the limit. She's enough to wear out a regiment. 
[135] 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

Anne [delighted, but protesting for effect]. Not Mrs. 
Collisson? 

Jacquelin. Yes. I mean what I say. She's 
never satisfied. Never by any chance. Always 
complaining! Always fussing! And a tongue! 

And a temper! Well! [He raises his eyes to 

heaven.] 

Anne. I can't believe it. Can you, Sir Charles? 

Sir Charles. You can't mean pale little, frail 
little Mrs. Collisson? 

Jacquelin. Frail? Pale? If ever there was an 
ox, it's that woman. 

Anne. But she's such an invalid! 

Jacquelin. All that invalid racket's put on. 
Believe me, if you want to know what a woman's 
really like, you've only got to see her at a fitting. 

Anne [a little too sweetly]. Come, Mr. Jacquelin, 
you mustn't betray poor Mrs. Collisson like that. 
If you take away that invalid pose of hers, how on 
earth is she going to get on? She has nothing else. 
It isn't fair of you, Mr. Jacquelin. 

Madeleine reenters by the little door right. 

Madeleine. Mrs. Collisson says she won't take 
the dress. She considers the drapery of it stuffy, 
[136] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

not to say vulgar. She said if you didn't come at 
once, sir, there'd be trouble. 

Jacquelin. Tell her if she wants trouble she'd 
better come down here. It's nearer the street. Go! 
And give her my message word for word. 

Madeleine. Very good, sir. 

[She goes off again by the little door right. 

Jacquelin. My drapery stuffy! My drapery 
vulgar! Ha! Ha! And from a pasty-faced crea- 
ture like that ! On her hands and knees I'll have her. 
On her hands and knees ! 

Anne. I'll go! [To Sir Charles.] She may 
come down — and I — I can't bear scenes! Are you 
coming? 

Sir Charles. I think I'll stay if you don't mind. 
I have a reason. 

Anne. Very well, then. Till dinner. 

Sir Charles. I may as well tell you. It isn't 
idle curiosity. You know that post that I have 
something to say about. Well, Collisson's after that. 
And if his wife is really what Mr. — Mr. 

Anne [prompting him]. Jacquelin 

Sir Charles. Mr. — Jacquelin says she is 



Anne. You wouldn't let a little thing like a 
wife's temper influence you? 
[137] 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

Sir Charles. Oh, it's most important what the 
wife's like, particularly in the case of a post of 
this kind. 

Anne. But surely, Sir Charles — you must re- 
member poor Mrs. Collisson's nerves are 

Sir Charles. I shouldn't plead too much for the 
Collissons if I were you. 

Anne. Why not? 

Sir Charles. Perhaps you aren't aware the 
choice lies between Collisson and your husband. 

Anne [pretending surprise]. Really? I never 
dreamt of such a thing. Neither does John, I'm 
sure. 

Sir Charles. Oh! Perhaps he wouldn't care 
about getting it, then? 

Anne. Care about it! He'd give his eyes to 
have it, of course. But, of course, he'd sooner die 
than say so — so should I. We don't believe in going 
about things in that way, do you? 

Sir Charles. No, of course not. Naturally. 
Naturally. 

Anne. In fact, I'm afraid I've said too much as 

it is. I know John would be furious with me; he is 

such a dear, modest, retiring soul — like all really 

competent people. But there! I'd better go before 

[138] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

I say another word. You see I'm not at all diplo- 
matic — unfortunately. [She holds out her hand.] 

Sir Charles [taking it tenderly]. You're delight- 
ful. 

Anne. Good-night, Mr. Jacquelin. [With a 
final look at Sir Charles.] Till dinner then. 

[Jacquelin bows her out by the door right. Syl- 
via and the fitter take the box with the dress 
off by the little door right.] 

Sir Charles. Charming creature! Charming! 

Jacquelin. The lady! Always the lady! And 
such an ad. for my business! Wears her dresses 
like an angel, don't she? 

Sir Charles [vaguely]. Yes. You don't mind my 
stopping on for a moment? 

Jacquelin. Sir Charles, honored. Honored! 
Besides, I'd like you to see that new girl of mine. 
Anita, I've called her. 

Sir Charles. Anita — hum! [After a pause, 
clearing his throat.] Er — er D'you mind tell- 
ing me something? Something rather delicate? 

Jacquelin. Not at all, Sir Charles. 

Sir Charles. Well, you see, I've never been in 
this kind of place before. These young ladies — these 

— models you call them 

[139] 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

Jacquelin. Mannequins. 

Sir Charles. Mannequins. Tell me — are they 
all — humph? You follow me? 

Jacquelin. I never inquire into their private 
lives, naturally. But I'm sure they're all very sen- 
sible girls. Know what life really means. And 
when the right man comes with the right sort of 
offer — well — they're no fools, of course. They're no 
fools. 

Sir Charles [with intense self-satisfaction]. The 
right sort of man! That's of course what I mean. 
The right sort of man! [He has got to the table with 
the underwear and plays about ivith it to hide his con- 
fusion.] Pretty roundabouts you've got here! 
Flimsy, naughty stuff, ain't they? 

Jacquelin. Oh, I have some much naughtier 
ones than those. I always keep 'em locked away. 
It's for our special clientele. 

Sir Charles. You don't say so? 

Jacquelin. Would you like to see some of them, 
Sir Charles? 

Sir Charles. Would I? 

[Jacquelin crosses to the "chiffonier" between 
the windows. As he does so Mrs. Collis- 
son reenters by the little door right in a tower- 
[140 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

ing rage. Her lanquid pose has completely 
forsaken her. Madeleine follows with a 
dress over her arm.] 

Mrs. Collisson [in her anger does not see Sir 
Charles, who is well over to the left behind the table 
with the underwear, and hidden partly by one or two 
hats on stands]. What's this message you've sent 
me about coming downstairs? 

Jacquelin. I thought, Madam, the discussion 
would be just as pleasant here. 

Mrs. Collisson. I've never been insulted so by 
any one in all my life — let alone a tradesman ! 

Jacquelin. Would you mind telling me what 
the trouble's about, Madam? 

Mrs. Collisson. What the trouble is! The 
usual trouble, of course! Look at that dress. 

Jacquelin. Well, what's wrong with it? 

Mrs. Collisson. It's outrageous ! Perfectly out- 
rageous! The drapery! The way it's managed! 
If you could see my figure in it! I look a thousand. 

Jacquelin. If you'll remember, Madam, when 
you chose it, I suggested that the design might be a 
trifle — shall we say — young? 

Mrs. Collisson. Young? What do you mean 
to insinuate? 

[141] 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

Jacquelin. I mean for one as delicate looking 
as you. 

Mrs. Collisson. Who said I was delicate? And 
what business is it of yours if I'm delicate or not? 
You're here to make my frocks. And if you can't, 
say so, and I'll go elsewhere. 

Jacquelin. I'm always sorry to lose a customer, 
Madam. But I really think in this case — perhaps 
it would be simpler for both of us if 

Mrs. Collisson. You mean you show me the 
door, do you? Very well — only let me tell you this. 
You're making a great mistake! A great mistake. 
Of course you don't know it yet, but my husband 
has just been offered a most important post. 

Jacquelin. Has he? 

Mrs. Collisson. Yes. And I could have sent 
you loads of people. Shoals and shoals. Now I 
shan't. On the contrary, I'll do just the reverse. I 
shall write to everybody I know about your utter 
incompetence, and your insolence into the bargain. 

Jacquelin. I shouldn't do that, Madam, or you 
might land yourself in a libel action. It would be 
far cheaper in the long run if you just settled the 
account you've been owing these last three years. 

Mrs. Collisson. Oh, you think because you 
[ 142] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

happen to be the rage just now, and have a few titled 
people sitting about your rooms and gaping at the 
models, like dreary Lady Appleby and ridiculous old 

Sir Charles 

[Sir Charles coughs audibly at the mention of 
his name. Turning and seeing him.] 
Oh — I — thought you had 

Sir Charles. I had gone, didn't you? I'm 
afraid after all this excitement, considering your very 
delicate state of health, you won't be well enough to 
come to dinner to-night, will you? 

Mrs. Collisson. I — I Oh, my head! 

[She draws herself up and goes off by the big door left. 

Sir Charles. Repulsive creature! 

Jacquelin [apologetically to Sir Charles]. I'm 
awfully sorry. 

Sir Charles. I'm delighted. That settles the 
post once and for all. [He rubs his hands.] You 
couldn't have done me a better service. 

Jacquelin. Really, Sir Charles. 

Sir Charles. Indeed you couldn't. 

Jacquelin. Then — er — ahem — might I ask a 
little favor in return? 

Sir Charles. Well? 

Jacquelin. Would you — would you put in one 
[143] 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

tiny word for me with Her Royal Highness — per- 
haps ? 

Sir Charles. Certainly! Certainly! I'll be 

only too de [Indicating the underwear.] Now 

about those little [He stops short on seeing 

Anita, who suddenly appears between the curtains, 
dressed in a ravishing evening gown. She resembles 
Anne, as Jacquelin said, except for her auburn hair 
which is partly hidden by a beautiful golden headdress. 
She poses first on the platform, then comes down the 
steps slowly in the "mannequin" fashion.] 

Sir Charles. God bJess my soul! [With a 
satisfied grunt.] God bless my soul! 

Jacquelin [turning to Madeleine who is still 
standing with the dress in the right-hand corner]. Miss 
Madeleine, take that Collisson dress upstairs and 
mark it for the sale. I don't want to see it again! 
And tell the young ladies they shan't be needed any 
more to-night. 

Madeleine. Very good, Mr. Jacquelin. 

[She goes off by the little door right. 

Jacquelin [beckoning to Anita to come over into 

the corner left]. Anita! Anita! One moment. 

There's something not quite right with that sash 

effect. [He pretends to put the dress in order, mean- 

f 144 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

while he whispers to Anita.] I want you to be very 
pleasant to Sir Charles. Very pleasant, d'you un- 
derstand, my dear? 

[Anita gives him a quick glance.] 
Jacquelin [aloud]. Now! Just go and show the 
dress to Sir Charles. [To Sir Charles.] You'll 
excuse me if I scribble a note to the Duchess, Sir 
Charles. [He goes up to the desk ostensibly to write a 
note, but really to leave Anita alone with Sir Charles. 
From the desk he watches the proceeding carefully. As 
Anita approaches Sir Charles the latter ogles her 
eagerly.] 

Sir Charles. D'you know you're a damn fine 
creature, my girl? Do you? 

[Anita goes through her gestures without turning 
a hair.] 
Sir Charles. I say. Do you — do you ever sup? 
[Anita looks Sir Charles up and down, then 
turns her back and goes off by the curtains at 
the back.] 
Sir Charles [to Jacquelin]. Did you see that? 
Snubbed, by Gad, snubbed. The little goose, the 
silly little goose! 

Jacquelin [coming forward apologetically with some 

fancy underwear] Sir Charles — I 

[145] 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

Sir Charles. Charmin ' things are happening to 
me here. Charmin 9 ! A lady insults me behind my 
back, a shop girl makes a fool of me to my face, and 
all in the space of less than five minutes. 

Jacquelin [as before]. Really, Sir Charles — I 

Sir Charles. It's the last time I put my foot in 
any of your damn dressmaker's establishments. 
The first and last time. You can take my word for 
it. Take those damn things away. How dare you 
show them to me? Good-day to you. 

[He goes off by the door left. 

Jacquelin [furiously to himself]. God! [He stops 
a moment not knowing what to do, then calls out 
wildly.] Anita! Anita! Anita! Miss Sylvia! Miss 
Madeleine! Where in the hell are you all? 

[Sylvia and Madeleine come hurrying from 
the small doors right and left.] 

Jacquelin. Can't you come when I call you? 
Go and fetch Anita for me. 

Sylvia. You wish to speak to her, sir? 

Jacquelin. D'you suppose I wish to take tea 
with her? Or sup with her? Eh? Mess me up 
with Sir Charles, would she? And make me lose the 

job with Her Royal Highness ? By God, I'll No. 

[To Sylvia.] Stop a bit. I'll speak to her in there. 
[ 146] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

Sylvia. The young ladies are changing to go 
home. 

Jacquelin. Don't I know? That's just why: 
before the lot of 'em — the whole damn lot of 'em. 

I'll soon settle her hash — the ! 

[He hurries up through the curtains. 

Curtain 

Scene II : Behind the black curtain through which the 
mannequins appear. The scene is quite shallow — 
merely the back of the black curtain and a small door 
left leading to the dressing-room of the mannequins. 
Almost in front of it stands a table with materials, 
pins, some boxes with various bits of trimmings, and a 
large pair of dressmaker s scissors. The four manne- 
quins in various stages of undress are standing listen- 
ing eagerly to the row which has been going on at the 
other side of the curtain. One, Psyche, has her 
ordinary walking dress on, but the bodice is still un- 
buttoned. Another has on the satin slip over which 
she has worn her model. Another is practically 
ready to go home. Anita, still of course in her eve- 
ning dress, stands hesitating at the centre of the curtain, 
Psyche holding her back. 

Psyche [in cockney]. Let 'im call, dearie! 'E's 
[147 1 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

got one of 'is usuals! It'll blow over in a second or 
two, and if you go Vll only begin to curse you — and 
then you cawn't tell where 

Jacquelin appears between the curtains. 

Jacquelin [to Anita]. Can't you come when 
you're called? 

Anita. I 

Psyche. I told 'er not to go. 

Jacquelin. Oh, you did, did you? What busi- 
ness is it of yours? And of the rest of you? 

The Three Others. We I We were 

only 

Jacquelin. Listening? Spying — eh? Get out, 

d'you hear? Or I [The three others go off 

through the door left. To Psyche.] And you, too. 
Or — damn you — there'll be fines all round. Take my 
word for it. 

Psyche. I ain't afraid o ' you. And you know it. 
I could tell a tale or two. Pretty readin' they'd 
make in the evening specials. Don't you dare bully 
me. 

Jacquelin [panting]. You 

Psyche. And don't you dare bully her — poor 
darlin'. 

[148] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

Jacquelin [pushing her away] . Get out, I tell you. 
Get out. 

Anita [to Psyche, gently]. Do go, Molly. It's 
good of you, I know. But I can manage quite alone 
with Mr. Jacquelin. 

Jacquelin. Oh, can you! 

Psyche. You can't! You can't. You're too 
new at the game. 

Anita. I'd sooner, really. There's a dear. Go! 

Psyche. Awright. Only 'e's a devil. Remem- 
ber, a devil. 

Jacquelin. You shut up. 

Psyche. Shan't, unless I choose. 
[She goes off by the door left, slamming it behind her. 

Jacquelin. There ! You see what you're doing, 
with your behavior — turnin' the whole place into 
pandemonia. 

Anita. I'm sorry. I'm sure I didn't mean to, 
Mr. Jacquelin. I'm very sorry. 

Jacquelin. Sorry don't mend matters much, does 
it? 

Anita. I can't do more than apologize. And if 
there's anything else you want to say to me, Mr. 

Jacquelin [Hesitating.] Oh, would you mind 

very, very much putting it off till to-morrow morning? 
f 149 1 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

Jacquelin. Putting it off? Why? What's the 
idea? 

Anita. Well, you promised me I could go home 
early to-night, didn't you? 

Jacquelin. I promised you? 

Anita. Yes, the first thing this morning. I 
didn't tell you the reason then, but it's really very 
serious. The fact is my mother's very bad, Mr. 
Jacquelin. There's something wrong with her heart. 

[Jacquelin laughs.] 
I'll come earlier to-morrow, sir, if you like, only the 
doctor said he'd be there at seven. And a doctor 
costs a lot of money, Mr. Jacquelin. 

Jacquelin. Well, if that don't beat everything! 
You kick up a row, and then you come and ask a 
favor on top of it. D'you know what you are? 
You're a comic! That's the only word for you. A 
downright comic! 

Anita. But you told me this morning I could go. 
I telephoned the doctor in consequence. 

Jacquelin. On my telephone, I suppose? 

Anita {faintly]. Yes. 

Jacquelin. Haven't you been told not to use 
the telephone for your private affairs? Haven't 
you? 

[150] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

Anita. I'll give you the twopence, Mr. Jacquelin. 

Jacquelin. Oh, twopence! Twopence ain't the 
point! It's your disobedience to orders — that's the 
point. The way you refuse to knuckle down to 
business. 

Anita. I've done everything else you told me. 
Everything. 

Jacquelin. Everything? What about just now? 
Were you pleasant to a certain gentleman? Were 
you even halfway decent? 

Anita. That isn't a thing that's expected of us, 
Mr. Jacquelin. You know it isn't. 

Jacquelin. Oh, isn't it? You'll find out there's 
a good deal more expected of you in this business 
than you expect's expected of you. [He turns his 
back on her and sees the table standing near the door 
left. Going over and giving the table a push, he calls 
out.] Miss Sylvia! Miss Sylvia! 

Sylvia's Voice [at some distance behind the cur- 
tains]. Yes, Mr. Jacquelin. 

Jacquelin [shouting]. What's this table doing 
here? Haven't I told you till I'm fair sick of it that 
this passage is to be kept clear? 

[Sylvia appears between the curtains. She has 
on her hat and jacket ready to go home.] 
[1511 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

Sylvia. That table? You told us to put it there 
yourself. 

Jacquelin. Now don't you come it over me with 
anything like that. 

Sylvia. You did, indeed, Mr. Jacquelin. This 
morning. When you were draping that brocade on 
Anita. You ordered us to pop the table behind the 
curtain and not to touch a thing on it. You re- 
member, sir. 

Jacquelin [remembering perfectly, but annoyed 
at being in the wrong]. No. I don't remember. 
And what the devil d 'you want to go and say before 
those people that that was Dutch lace? Of course 
we know it's Dutch lace, me and you. But what 
does Dutch sound like when you can say Venetian? 
Another time you keep your mouth shut when 

I'm 

[The telephone rings behind the curtains.] 
See who that is! 

Sylvia [going out to the telephone]. Hullo ! Hullo ! 
It's the Honorable Mrs. Walter Austin. 

Jacquelin. Herself? 

Sylvia. Yes. 

Jacquelin. Just bring the telephone stand up on 
the platform. I don't want to keep running up and 
[152] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

down like a rabbit. Besides — [with a look at Anita] — 
I may be here for quite some time yet. [He rubs his 
hands.] 

Sylvia [behind the curtains]. The wire won't 
reach round the curtains. 

Jacquelin [going behind the curtain]. Oh, that'll 
do. 

Sylvia comes through the curtains again. 

Jacquelin [talks into the telephone outside the cur- 
tains. His back can be seen against the folds]. Yes, 
Madam? Late, Madam, yes. Just going home,, 
Madam. Yes, very fortunate you caught me. By 
Thursday night? An evening dress? Well — you're 
in luck. Just had a Paris model over. Suit you to a 
T, Madam. Absolutely your style. Dignified — yes, 
very. What, Madam? Would you mind saying 
that again? [He is apparently listening to her.] 

Anita [in a whisper to Sylvia]. D'you think I 
can go? 

Sylvia. Not till he tells you to. 

Anita [with suppressed agitation]. But he prom- 
ised! 

Sylvia. I wouldn't kick if I was you ! I used to, 
too, in the beginning — you don't gain a thing by it. 
[153] 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

Not a thing. Only rows and tears and headaches the 
next day. 

Jacquelin [who has kept up a running string of 
"Yes, Madam," "No" "Quite so"]. Very well, 
Madam. The Paris model. To-morrow at eleven, 
Madam. [He rings off and comes back through the 
curtains. To Sylvia.] The Honorable Mrs. Walter 
Austin. To-morrow morning. Eleven. Palm off 
that dress of Mrs. Collisson's on her. She'll never 
know. They ain't in the same set. 

Sylvia. Yes, Mr. Jacquelin. Is that all? 

Jacquelin. Just give a look round and see all 
the dust sheets are over the things. And then you 
can go. 

Sylvia. Very well, Mr. Jacquelin. Good-night. 
[She goes off through the curtains. 

Jacquelin. Good-night. 

Anita. What about me, Mr. Jacquelin? 

Jacquelin. Well, what about you? 

Anita. May I go, too? 

Jacquelin. Go? No, my dear. I think we'll 
have a couple o ' hours more, me and you ! Just here 
behind these curtains. We'll go on with that gown. 
[He turns to the table and takes up some material there.] 

Anita. You don't mean it, Mr. Jacquelin. 
[ 154] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

Jacquelin. Most certainly I mean it, Miss 
Anita. Get out of this dress quick and put on one 
of your pink silk slips. I'll have another shot at that 
tunic. 

Anita. But it's after closing time. 

Jacquelin. What of that? If it's after closing 
time for you, it's after closing time for me. Come 
along ! Don't waste any more words. 

Anita [after a pause — gently]. Mr. Jacquelin. 
Please. I know you're annoyed with me. But 
can't you look at it from my point of view just for a 
minute? Don't you see that I couldn't — I couldn't 
accept advances from that man, Mr. Jacquelin? 

Jacquelin. What man? 

Anita. You know — Sir Charles. 

Jacquelin. Then have the decency to say Sir 
Charles. I won't have my customers talked about 
disrespectfully, d'you hear? 

Anita. They bring it on themselves if they be- 
have as they do. 

Jacquelin. Don't you talk about behavior. 
Putting on all the airs of a saint, when you know 
jolly well you'll take up with the first little squirt that 
happens to tickle your taste on a Saturday afternoon. 

Anita [with dignity, but a good deal of anger]. 
[155] 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

YouVe got no right, Mr. Jacquelin, to insult a girl for 
keeping her self-respect. 

Jacquelin. I have a right to do what I damn 
please in my establishment. D'you understand me? 
And I'm not going to be told what I can do or can't 
do by a miserable twopenny pair of stays like you. 
What? Come here and beg to be taken on and then 
start and tell me what's right and what's wrong? I'll 
teach you, my young miss. I'll break you — before 
I get done with you. See if I don't. 

Anita. You're mistaken there. Some of us don't 
break; some of us that happen to be brought up de- 
cently. You see we aren't all of us ready to fling 
ourselves at you, body and soul. 

Jacquelin. Who asked for your body? I don't 
want your scraggy, measly body. I can get as many as 
ever I like of your sort; yes, and more, too, thank you. 

Anita [quietly, after a moment]. I think I'd better 
go, Mr. Jacquelin. And for good. I shan't be here 
to-morrow. 

Jacquelin. Oh, no, you're not. We're going to 
work. 

Anita. I'm not. You can't make me work 
overtime. If you try to, the first thing in the morn- 
ing I shall lodge a complaint against you. 
[156] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

Jacquelin. Do ! And I'll pay my fine. That'll 
be the end of it as far as I'm concerned. But what 
about you, miss? Eh? 

Anita. I shall get work elsewhere in time. 

Jacquelin. Will you? What about your refer- 
ences? Where are you going to get work when there 
are thousands ready and willing to work who don't 
lodge complaints and give away their employers? 
Thousands, just as young as you and pretty as you. 
So you see, my dear, you see. 

Anita. Good God ! And this is what we women 
are born to — we that have to earn our living! 
Slaves! Worse than slaves. Of no more value than 
the dirt under our feet. 

Jacquelin. Precisely. Cattle! You're so much 
cattle. Nothing more or less. And all your votes 
you're shouting about, and all the laws you want to 
pass, they won't make a jot of difference. As long 
as there's a glut of you females in the market, we've 
got the whip hand. And I for one won't let go the 
whip — trust me for that. 

Anita. I didn't know any human being could be 
so utterly shameless. 

Jacquelin. Shameless? Not at all. That's 
power. Power, my dear. Look here. Let me tell 
[157] 



Act 111 MY LADY'S DRESS 

you something. When I'd made my first sixpence, I 
turned round and kicked the man with a penny in 
his pocket. That's the way I've climbed up in the 
world. And that's the way I'll go on, by God! 
Kicking as long as there's a kick left inside o' me. 
[The telephone rings.] And there's a good few still 
in these legs o' mine — make no mistake. [To the 
telephone.] Yes! Yes! Yes! [He goes behind the 
curtains again. Anita, shaken by the interview, crosses 
to the table and leans her back against it, closing her eyes 
wearily. Jacquelin meanwhile telephones; his back 
is plainly discernible through the folds of the curtain.] 

Jacquelin. Hullo! Hullo! Yes. Oh, it's you, 
Tommie, dear boy! Go to one of the Halls to-night? 
Awf 'ly sorry. No, I can't. Got to work and more 
besides. Usual thing. Pulling one of my girls into 
shape. Obstreperous? Yes, a bit. They're all like 
that at first, poor darlings! Same old story. Yes. 
All pay and no work. Must get home. Dying 
mother and all that! 

Anita [breathless with indignation]. Mr. Jac- 
quelin ! 

Jacquelin [at the telephone]. What? Yes! Ha! 
Ha! Of course! Ma's real name's Algy or Reggie, 
of course. And she's waiting in some private bar 
[158 1 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

off Leicester Square with a waxed moustache and a 
(ive shilling piece! Yes! Ha! Ha! 

Anita [trembling with rage]. Mr. Jacquelin! 

You've no right! My mother! 

Jacquelin [down the telephone]. What do you 
say? [Very patronizingly.] Yes, yes. Only a mat- 
ter of a week or so, and she'll be eating out of my 
hand. What? Certainly. Pass her on to you? 
Certainly. Whenever you like. Ta, ta, old boy. 
Sorry. Bless you! 

[Anita, shaking from head to foot, has lost all 
control of herself. In her agony she has taken 
up the large dressmaker s shears which are 
lying on the table. During Jacquelin 's 
last insult, she looks down at them in her hand 
and suddenly, just as he is evidently going to 
return, she opens them and plunges one of the 
blades through the curtains into what she judges 
to be his shoulders. She has aimed well. The 
scissors stick in the curtain. She stands 
horrified, her hands to her open mouth. 
From behind the curtain comes only one short 
cry "Christ!" The scissors fall down sud- 
denly. The curtains sway violently, as of 
some one trying to clutch at them; then there is 
[159] 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

an ominous thump — and a faint groan. 

Anita instinctively raises the curtain. She 

drops it again quickly, but Jacquelin 's feet 

and legs, halfway to his knees, protrude. He is 

evidently lying on the floor behind the curtain.] 

Anita [hysterically]. Why don't you kick! You've 

kicked your way up. You said there were still a 

few good kicks left in those legs of yours. Well — 

why don't you Why don't [She begins to 

scream with hysterics.] Ah! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! 
Ah! [The telephone begins to ring again.] Ah ha! 
Ha! Ha! [The telephone rings again.] Ah! 

[The scene vanishes. The telephone goes on 
ringing and ringing till the next scene slowly 
lights up.] 

Scene III : The Boudoir. Same scene as the first 
scene of Act I. The telephone is heard to ring several 
times. Gradually the glow of the fire begins to light 
up the room. Anne is seen lying asleep as at the 
end of the first scene of Act I. She wakes up ivith a 
start and turns on the lights; then goes to the telephone 
murmuring: " To wake me up like this." 

Anne [taking off the receiver]. Yes? Yes, Baker. 
Didn't Leonie tell you I was lying down? Well — 
[160] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

what is it? Who wants to speak to me? Oh, Sir 
Charles. Yes, of course I'll speak to Sir Charles. 
. . . Oh, is that you, Sir Charles? Disturb me? 
I'm most grateful to you. I was having a most 
beastly dream! No! No! You want to tell me a 
secret? I think I can guess it — I can't? I'm to 
swear not even to tell my husband? Oh, I couldn't 
do that. Only for to-night. Yes — but what is it? 
Swear first. Well, there. There, I swear. What? 

You've got John the post? The post Oh, Sir 

Charles, you really are too wonderful. My husband 
to thank me for it? Nonsense! Oh, no, I wasn't! 
[Coyly.] I wasn't delightful at all to-day. Just my 
poor, stupid self, that's all! What? Mrs. Collisson? 
Lost her temper? Really? Not an invalid at all? 
Come! I won't believe it! Now! Now! She's a 
dear, really. I hate to think of her being so disap- 
pointed! With her delicate health, too. No — 
I promise you. Not a word to my husband. Not 
a word. Of course you want to tell him your- 
self, naturally. But it's most sweet of you to 
let me know first — so like you — so exactly like 
you 

Leonie enters the room from door left. 
[1611 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

Leonie. Ah, Madame est reveillee? 

Anne [into the telephone]. Here's some one! Yes 
— punctually — quarter past eight. Yes. Yes. 
[Coyly.] Oh, now, Sir Charles ! Now! Now! Now! 
I'll have to ring off if you go on like that! [She 
laughs again.] Ha! Ha! No! I'm going to ring 
off. There, now! [She hangs up the telephone.] 
Got it! Got it! Got it! 

Leonie. Madame, veut-elle que je prepare son 
bain? 

Anne. Yes, get the bath ready at once. What 
time is it? 

Leonie. Just past seven. 

Anne. How long have I slept? 

Leonie. Madame has not sleep 'alf an hour. 

Anne. Not half an hour? [As in a dream.] It 
can't be ! 

Leonie. Regardez, Madame! [She points to the 
clock.] 

Anne [her hand over her eyes]. Half an hour! 
[Leonie goes off into the bathroom. Staring before her.] 

All that ? In half an hour? [There is a knock 

on the door left.] It does seem strange! [Another 
knock. Hearing the knock.] Yes? 

John's Voice [outside]. Are you awake? 
[162] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

Anne [on the defensive]. No! I'm asleep! 

[John enters rather contritely. He wears his 
dressing-gown.] 

John. Let me come in, will you? 

Anne [with a surprised smile]. I'm not sure 
whether I like cave men walking about my boudoir. 

John. My dear — I couldn't go on dressing — I — 
I've been thinking things over — I don't know what 
was the matter with me before. It's that rotten 
jealousy of mine. 

Anne. I've been thinking things over, too, John. 
I shouldn't have played on your jealousy as I have. 
It was quite wrong of me. 

John. No, no, my dear 

Anne. Yes, it was. And I've decided — seri- 
ously decided — I shan't make eyes at old Sir Charles 
to-night. [Her hand on the telephone.] I promise 
you I shan't. I'll be most correct — most matronly, 
as becomes the mother of your children. 

John. You make me feel a fool now. 

Anne. No, my dear, no. I agree with you. You 
must get your post by yourself — by direct, honest 
means. And somehow I feel you will get it, John — 
without any nonsense on my part. Something tells 

me you will. And you know a woman's instinct 

1163] 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

John. My darling ! There never was such a wife 
as you ! 

Anne. Nonsense! I'm sure there are tens of 
thousands ! 

[The water is heard to run in the bathroom. 
She goes over to the dress.] 
And I don't think I'll wear this dress either. In 
fact, if I could return it — exchange it 

John. My darling! What's happened to you? 

Anne. You see I had such a strange dream. Or 
rather not like a dream — they were glimpses — 
glimpses of all those lives that go to make a flimsy 
thing like that. The awful struggles for existence! 
And you were in it somehow — tender sometimes, and 
sometimes brutal — and I was in it, too. And yet we 
weren't ourselves and yet we were — and everybody 
was pushing, fighting, hating, loving — in one endless 
battle. 

John. I told you I didn't like the idea of those 
headache powders! I'm sure they're too strong. 

Anne. Oh, it was more than mere headache 
powders this — I'm sure. I feel quite queer about 
this dress now. To think of the sickening expendi- 
ture of human energy it stands for 

John. But so does everything stand for an awful 
[ 164] 



MY LADY'S DRESS Act III 

expenditure of human energy — everything we eat 

and wear and use — and throw away. 

Anne. John, that's a terrible thought 

John. Dearest ! If one begins to think at all 



Anne. Do you believe the world will ever be 
better? We'll ever outgrow this grind, grind, grind? 

John. You're full of philosophy to-night, aren't 
you? 

Anne. Philosophy? It's something more than 
philosophy, John. It's [She turns to him pas- 
sionately.] Oh, my love! Hold me close! Let me 
forget. [She is in his arms.] Or, rather, John, 
you and I, once you have your post, let's try and do 
our share somehow, shall we? Try to help them 
along a little — those workers — help them to get 
away from — from 

John. From the cave-dwelling days? 

Anne. Yes. The cave-dwelling days 



[They embrace. Giving a little laugh.] 
Ha! I'll wear my dress now. It'll make me remem- 
ber. 

Leonie reenters. 

Leonie. Le bain est pret, Madame. 
Anne. My bath! We must get ready, John. 
[165] 



Act III MY LADY'S DRESS 

[John tries to embrace her.] 
No! No! No! 

John. My darling, we've still got half an hour 



[She pushes him gently away with her hand. 
He takes it and kisses it. Giving in.] 
Oh, very well. Go and have your bath. 
Anne [with a smile]. John! 

[ They nod to each other. He goes of to the holly 
she to the bathroom, twisting up her hair.] 



CURTAIN 



~i 19W* 




THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS 
GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper proce 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: June 2009 

PreservationTechnologii 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVAT 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 



